UC-NRLF 


FIELD-FARINGS 

MARTHA'MCC-W!LLJAMS 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

PRESENTED  BY 

PROF.  CHARLES  A.  KOFOID  AND 
MRS.  PRUDENCE  W.  KOFOID 


FIELD-FARINGS 

A  Vagrant  Chronicle  of  Earth  and  Sky 


BY 


MARTHA    McCULLOCH    WILLIAMS 


"A  picture-frame -for  yo^l  to  fill'1'1 
R.  L.  STEVENSON 


NEW   YORK 

HARPER  &   BROTHERS,  FRANKLIN   SQUARE 
1892 


Copyright,  1892,  by  HARPER  &  BROTHERS. 

All  rights  reserved. 


BuJ, 


TO 

ONE  WHOSE  HEART  IS  A  GARDEN 
ALL    OF    FRAGRANT   THINGS 

MRS.  MARGARET  E.  SANGSTER 
THIS  LITTLE  BOOK 

1F0  Xovfngls  IFngcribeD 


M354472 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

SNOW-FALL I 

NEW  GROUND 1$ 

AT    FLOOD 24 

WINDS   O'   MARCH   ' 30 

A    LITTLE   EARTH 38 

WHERE   THE    BEE   SUCKS 48 

TREES  ABLOSSOM 55 

GREEN    FIELDS 62 

A    MOON   O'  MAY 68 

IN   A   RIOTOUS   GARDEN 74 

SUMMER   RAIN 83 

IN   THE   OLD    FIELD 91 

WHEAT    HARVEST IO2 

HIGH    SUMMER Io8 

DOWN    THE   CREEK 114 

IN    THE   ROSE   GARDEN.  122 


PAGE 

GHOST-LAND 128 

HORSE    AND   AWAY 134 

AUGUST    LILIES 142 

THROUGH    FIELDS   AFLOWER       ....  148 

WHAT   SAITH   SEPTEMBER? 153 

IN  "THE  MOON   OF  FALLING  LEAVES"    .  160 

ALL    IN   A   MIST l66 

TONGUES    IN   TREES 173 

SUNDOWN l8o 

AFTER  FROST 187 

IN  AT  THE  DEATH.     . 193 

GATHERING  CORN 2OI 

A  HUNTER'S  MOON 212 

IN  MONOCHROME 224 

FRESH  FIELDS  AND  PASTURES  NEW  .    .  230 
COME  CHRISTMAS-DAY 237 


SNOW-FALL 

N  you  love  Nature,  our  moth- 
er, a  winter  world  shall  tempt 
you  forth  as  strongly  as  sum- 
mer sunshine.  All  the  more 
if  your  lines  are  cast  where 
snow  is  an  event,  not  a  commonplace  of 
long,  white  monotony.  All  of  yesterday 
it  was  falling,  falling,  sifting  down  in  fine, 
needle-sharp  lines.  At  nightfall  the  flakes 
grew  big  and  feathery,  as  though  the 
snow -cloud  had  a  mind  to  come  bodily 
to  earth. 

The  weatherwise  knew  what  it  meant — 
a  clear  sunrise,  a  faint,  keen  blast  sitting 
steady  at  northwest.  East  wind  is  the 
snow-bringer.  His  brother,  whose  home  is 
in  the  far  Rocky  Mountains,  breaks  and  ban- 
ishes the  low,  protecting  clouds.  Truly, 
God  giveth  snow  like  wool.  Without  it,  the 
earth  loses  in  myriads  her  tender  seedlings. 
It  brings  to  her  also  strength,  vital  force. 
That  electric  condition,  wherein  you  feel 


"snow  in  the  air,"  is  marvellously  fructify- 
ing. So  light,  so  white,  the  thistle-down  of 
winter,  it  comes  bearing  gifts  that  shall 
make  all  the  world  glad. 

Promise  of  full  harvest  is  in  it.  Full 
streams,  too ;  also  the  early  and  the  latter 
rains.  Give  thanks  for  all,  and  venture  forth 
spite  of  this  nipping  air.  All  paths  lie  un- 
broken. To  walk  through  this  twelve-inch 
fall  sets  blood  atingle  to  your  finger-tips. 

The  game  is  worth  the  candle.  Even  if  you 
saw  no  more  than  the  white,  fine  curves  of 
mounded  drift  and  hillock.  Low  and  soft 
are  they — warm  beds  for  Earth's  tiny  chil- 
dren, not  cruel  grave-mounds  over  her  dead. 
The  snow  did  its  spiriting  gently  indeed. 
It  fell  almost  without  wind.  Here,  in  the 
orchard,  branch,  bough,  twig  lie  heaped  with 
glistening  white,  and  bent  all  to  earth  with 
the  clouds'  fair  gift  of  pearls.  Part  the 
boughs  over  the  pathway  with  gentlest  touch, 
yet  tiny  avalanches  shower  upon  you.  All 
the  grieving  grave-yard  cedars  are  tall,  ghost- 
ly cones — even  the  brier-clumps  turned  to 
ivory -carvings,  more  exquisitely  patterned 
than  ever  came  from  mortal  hand. 

Something  rifts  a  cedar's  southernmost 
side — something  more  than  dazzling  against 
this  world  of  white.  Ah  ha !  Master  Red- 


bird  took  refuge  from  the  snow  in  this  dark 
evergreen  fastness — now  he  is  minded  to 
stir  abroad  for  a  breakfast  more  to  his  taste 
than  the  cedar's  thick  blue-berries.  See ! 
he  perches  on  a  tall  apple-bough,  so  lightly 
as  scarce  to  disturb  its  crown  of  snow.  Lis- 
ten to  his  low,  insistent  call.  Madame,  his 
mate,  is  most  like  a  sleepy- head,  dozing 
yet  upon  her  perch  within.  How  he  sways 
in  the  wind — a  flower  of  the  air — ruffling  his 
small  throat  till  the  laggard  love  comes  to 
him.  Hers  is  a  querulous  note.  Perhaps 
she  is  reminding  him  that  she  knew  last  fall 
it  was  going  to  snow — and  how  very,  very 
much  better  if  they  had  flitted  south,  along 
with  other  fashionable  folk  in  feather. 

Poor  little  body  !  Her  red-throated,  ruffled 
coat  does  seem  a  pitiful  protection  against 
this  cold.  It  strengthens  hourly,  spite  of 
the  sunshine.  This  barn  here  in  the  outly- 
ing field  has  one  steep  roof-side  fair  to  the 
south.  The  snow  upon  it  smokes  and  thaws 
faintly  —  the  drippings  thereof  freeze  in 
crystalline  fringes  all  along  the  eaves. 

It  is  one  of  those  days, 

"  When  icicles  hang  on  the  wall. 

****** 
And  milk  comes  frozen  home  in  pail." 


Tramp  lustily  forward,  with  head  upheld, 
with  mouth  close-shut,  and  no  harm  of  it 
shall  befall  you.  Now  we  gain  the  wood's 
edge,  and  look  back  at  the  long  fields  criss- 
crossed with  snow-capped  fences,  streaked 
faintly  hither  and  yon  with  trails  of  ven- 
turous foot-prints. 

Woodsmen  are  all  abroad.  From  every 
hand  axe-strokes  ring  cheerily  through  the 
bitter  air.  Leave  them  behind,  and  plunge 
into  the  deep  forest,  whose  big  boles  show 
in  dim,  dark  colonnades  against  the  white 
earth.  There  only  does  the  winter  most 
truly  enthrall  you.  The  sharp  wind  is  shiv- 
ered into  a  long,  chill  sighing.  Especially 
here  in  lee  of  this  low  slope,  clothed  top  to 
bottom  with  trees  that,  had  they  tongues 
understood  of  men,  could  tell  you  rare  tales 
of  vanished  days,  vanished  races — of  Creek 
and  Choctaw  and  Cherokee — of  Algonquin 
and  Ojibwa — who  by  turns  killed  deer,  or 
bear,  or  buffalo  in  their  shadow,  or  turned 
tomahawk  and  arrow  one  against  the  other's 
breast. 

All  this  wide,  central  region  was  dark  and 
bloody  ground,  held  of  no  tribe,  hunted, 
wrestled  over  by  all.  It  is  sown  thick  with 
their  weapons — every  ploughman  turns  them 
up.  Here,  under  these  huge  oaks,  was  once 


a  famous  run-way  for  deer.  So  much  tradi- 
tion avouches.  Three  miles  away,  the  Buf- 
falo Ford,  across  a  wide,  swift  stream,  holds 
tangible  memory  of  those  giants  of  the 
plain. 

Men  yet  living  have  seen  them  cross  it 
by  hundreds — by  thousands.  Now,  lack-a- 
day !  their  heads  are  dust,  their  bones 
ableach  on  the  lessening  prairie.  Yet  these 
goodly  saplings  of  their  day  stand  stanch 
and  tall,  laughing  rarely  with  the  summer, 
daring  the  winter's  stress.  They  are  intol- 
erant of  neighbors  less  lordly.  No  low 
shrubs  cumber  them  at  root.  Aspiring  sap- 
lings fight  hard  for  life  in  their  shade,  and 
win  only  by  shooting  up,  miraculous  tall  and 
slim,  to  claim  a  share  of  sunshine. 

All  overhead  is  a  tangle  of  locked  boughs. 
You  can  see  no  sky  clear  of  their  lacy  net- 
work. Wherefore,  never  look  hence  at  the 
horned  new  moon.  Seen  first  "  through 
brush"  she  is  sure  presage  of  woe.  Now 
she  is  invisible.  Your  eye  may  range  safely 
up  and  up,  a  full  hundred  feet  to  the  branchy 
tips.  Let  it  fall  slowly,  slowly,  marking  all 
beneath.  Here  you  may  surprise  a-many 
sylvan  secrets.  Something  big  and  dark 
sits  huddled  against  the  great  oak's  mid- 
most branch — so  high  that  only  a  hunter 


or  master  of  wood-craft  would  know  it  for  a 
wild  turkey.  There  is  another — two,  in  fact 
— in  the  white-oak  just  beyond.  Hunted 
well-nigh  to  extinction,  they  find  asylum 
here  in  this  lingering  stronghold  of  the  for- 
est primeval. 

Aperch,  with  head  beneath  the  wing,  they 
look  a  temptingly  easy  prey.  Wait !  break 
but  one  twig  —  whisper  even  above  your 
breath — they  are  away  down  wind,  on  wide, 
tireless  pinions  that  only  the  fleetest  horse 
can  follow.  Yet  they  are  simple  fellows — 
easily  fooled,  despite  the  caution  born  of 
danger.  Gregarious,  too,  and  curious  as  a 
monkey.  The  wily  hunter  knows  it  to  the 
bird's  cost.  He  builds  a  blind  of  brush  and 
leaves,  hangs  twenty  yards  in  front  of  it 
some  bit  of  red  stuff,  hides  himself,  and  calls 
upon  a  "  yelping  bone  "  till  the  woodland 
rings  with  his  counterfeit  note. 

Woe  to  the  birds  that  hear  it.  They  set 
off  at  the  run,  to  hunt  this  stranger  evidently 
lost  in  the  wood.  Running  they  give  out 
answering  calls — the  sharp  yelping  prut-t, 
that  once  heard  is  never  forgotten.  Nearer, 
nearer  it  sounds.  The  ambushed  hunter 
clutches  his  gun,  sights  along  the  barrel 
towards  his  red  flag.  It  is  there  his  quarry 
will  pause,  curiously  peering,  checked  by  the 


unfamiliar  sight,  in  his  search  for  the  unseen 
yelpers.  A  minute  of  nervous  fingering, 
"lining  up  "  the  flock — fiery  death  bursts  out 
from  the  harmless  bush — the  remnant  flut- 
ter away — the  huntsman  rushes  out  to  find 
two,  three,  it  may  be  even  four,  fine  birds  — 
enough  to  salve  with  the  lust  of  possession 
his  conscience  against  hurt  for  such  un- 
sportsmanlike methods. 

For  it  is  murder  premeditate — with  no  law 
for  the  quarry,  such  as  the  gentle  art  of  ven- 
ery  allows  all  hunted  things.  Perhaps  it  is 
some  floating  tradition  of  that  which  makes 
the  rabbit-hunting  lads  hold  their  dogs  in 
leash  till  Mistress  Molly  Cottontail  has  a 
clear  start.  We  have  passed  the  wood  now, 
and  come  out  upon  a  neighboring  planta- 
tion. The  open  is  alive.  Here  be  great 
dogs  and  small — yelping,  snarling,  straining 
on  their  collars,  frantic  to  be  tumbling, 
plunging  through  the  snow. 

A  mighty  various  lot  are  they— 

"  Mongrel,  puppy,  whelp,  and  hound, 
And  curs  of  low  degree." 

By  the  way,  did  you  know  the  cur's  name 
had  an  historic  tang?  You  thought  it  gene- 
ric, and  most  useful  as  an  epithet  of  scorn. 
In  a  way  it  is  both,  yet  runs  back  to  the 


days  when  the  chase  was  an  affair  of  state. 
Then,  by  special  enactment,  dogs  of  the  vil- 
leinage, for  the  most  part  low-bred  mongrels, 
were  required  to  be  curtailed  of  the  feather, 
in  order  that  they  might  be  readily  cogniza- 
ble by  huntsmen  and  whippers-in,  who  could 
thus  separate  them,  in  chase,  from  My  Lord's 
racing,  fine -bred,  true -nosed  deer-hounds, 
whom  the  plebeians  might  confuse  and  draw 
to  a  false  scent.  From  cur-tail  dog  to  cur- 
dog,  or  simply  cur,  the  descent  is  easy,  even 
without  aid  from  Time's  transforming  whirl- 
igig- 

Though  his  name  is  so  foreshortened,  his 
race  abounds.  Folk  hereabout  are  evident- 
ly at  one  with  the  canny  Scot,  who  "  aye 
thocht  a  mon  leukit  sae  naked  wi'out  a  bit 
doggie  at  his  heels."  Every  huntsman,  even 
the  smallest,  holds  three  to  four  eager  creat- 
ures, betwixt  whose  plunging  and  straining 
towards  all  quarters  many  falls  are  his  por- 
tion. 

When  the  snow  began  Mistress  Molly 
perhaps  thought  it  a  small  affair.  She 
crouched  comfortably  in  some  tuft  of  dry 
grass  to  doze  it  away.  By  and  by,  as  it 
grew  deeper,  she  stirred  a  little,  back  and 
forth,  scooping  by  pressure  of  her  soft  body 
a  chamber,  barely  big  enough  for  it,  in  the 


white,  growing  wall.  At  last  it  was  over  her 
back,  her  long  silken  ears.  Gently,  gently, 
she  surged  against  it,  till  it  arched  whitely 
over  her — shut  her  in  safe  from  wind  and 
cold. 

She  has  not  yet  left  her  snow-chamber. 
She  supped  full  of  buds  before  the  fall  be- 
gan, and  has  so  far  'scaped  hunger.  Her 
warm  breath  has  melted  a  tiny  window  in 
the  arched  roof,  and  puffs  out  through  it  in 
fairy  clouds.  It  is  those  which  betray  her 
hiding-place.  Once  it  is  sighted,  your  pot- 
hunter falls  flat  upon  it,  with  intent  to  seize 
outright  its  furry  occupant. 

Sometimes  he  is  successful,  and  scrambles 
up,  holding  high  above  his  head  the  quaking, 
four-footed  thing,  quavering  out  a  piteous 
cry.  Oftener  far,  Mistress  Molly  slips  safe 
through  his  fingers,  shakes  the  snow  from 
her  hair,  and  goes  away  with  great  leaping 
bounds  that  mark  and  dent  darkly  the  white, 
yielding  surface. 

Bedlam  breaks  loose  then.  Once  she  is 
thirty  yards  away,  dogs  are  let  slip  and  go 
after  her  full  cry,  a  yelling,  shouting  chorus 
at  their  heels.  The  chase  is  not  long.  Fear 
lends  Mistress  Cottontail  speed,  but  strips 
her  of  her  cunning.  Her  line  of  flight  is 
straight-away.  If  she  would  but  turn  aside, 


10 


bend,  double  on  her  track,  even  the  lightest 
dog  could  not  over-run  her.  She  is  making 
blindly  for  the  far,  thick  brier -field  —  a 
thorny  haven  she  may  never  reach.  Now 
she  drops,  flat  and  breathless,  on  the  snow — 
the  nearest  dog  turns  a  summersault  in  the 
effort  to  check  him  and  seize  her.  Before 
his  fellows  can  come  up  human  hands  have 
swung  her  aloft — a  loud  halloo  of  victory 
tells  other  hunters  her  fate. 

Poor  little  Mistress  Molly  !  Eden's  inno- 
cence seems  to  linger  in  your  limpid,  appeal- 
ing eyes.  You  are  full  of  pretty  craft,  of 
gentle  guile.  Seemingly  you  ask  little  of 
earth — space  for  your  young  to  play,  a  din- 
ner of  herbs  and  buds.  Surely  man  might 
grant  so  much  ungrudgingly— leave  you  un- 
molested to  frisk  through  woodland  ways. 
And  yet — and  yet — if  he  spared  you,  it  were 
his  own  destruction.  You  would  crowd  him 
from  the  face  of  earth,  eat  every  green  thing, 
and  leave  behind  you  a  desert  inside  of  a 
hundred  years.  Verily,  the  problem  of  nec- 
essary evil  is  one  too  complex  for  mere  hu- 
man solution. 

Now  the  sun  turns  westering.  Here,  at 
the  swamp's  edge,  is  a  dead  tree — gaunt, 
white,  barkless.  Twenty  feet  from  earth  a 
hollow  makes  in.  Once  a  great  branch  grew 


there.  The  wild  winds  tore  it  away — the 
green  wound  grew  at  last  to  this  yawning 
dry  one.  Sound  wood  rimmed  it  about — 
sound  still,  though  life  has  so  long  left  the 
parent  trunk.  Queer  tenants  house  them  in 
it.  Woodpeckers  have  flown  in  and  out 
since  dawn.  A  blue-bird  is  aperch,  too,  in 
the  hollow  of  one  gnarled  lip.  He  sits  mo- 
tionless in  the  sun,  heedless  that  his  mate 
calls  shrilly  to  him  from  the  near  hedge- 
row. 

A  little  higher  you  see  a  round  tunnel- 
mouth  in  the  wood.  That  is  due  to  Sir  Red- 
head— one  of  his  choicest  bits  of  engineer- 
ing. There  he  kept  house,  and  fed  his  clam- 
orous younglings  in  the  time  of  cherries.  He 
would  be  there  still,  but  that  Master  Screech- 
Owl  fancied  snug  winter -quarters,  and  has 
entered  in  to  possess  them.  See  !  the  hunts- 
men have  scraped  away  the  snow,  and  built 
a  fire  of  dead  branches  at  the  tree's  root. 
It  must  be  some  flaw  or  cranny  runs  up 
to  Master  Owl's  snug  chamber — he  dashes 
out  of  it,  falls  blind  and  panting  on  the 
snow. 

Use  him  delicately.  In  Nature's  economy 
he  has  his  place.  What  a  clown  he  looks, 
to  be  sure,  flying  blindly  this  way  and  that, 
as  he  is  set  atop  of  a  near  bush,  falling  prone 


12 


to  earth,  then  snapping  viciously  at  the  res- 
cuing wand  that  would  raise  him.  Wisdom's 
bird  though  he  be,  he  shines  only  in  the 
dark.  Sailing  slow  and  noiseless  through 
midnight  forest  aisles,  his  great  eyes  gleam- 
ing a  green  phosphorescence,  he  is  a  sight 
to  thrill  the  stoutest  heart.  Here,  in  broad, 
honest  daylight,  like  many  another  bogy,  he 
is  merely  amusing. 

Now  we  come  to  a  runnel  draining  slow 
from  out  the  wood.  What  a  brown  clear- 
ness the  water  wears  between  the  white- 
heaped  banks !  Here,  in  the  skirting  thicket, 
is  one  of  Nature's  store-houses  —  a  waste- 
place,  irreclaimable,  wherein  she  lays  up  for 
her  wild  creatures  all  manner  of  fruit  and 
seed.  What  clumps  of  buck-berries  grow 
here — all  the  slender,  drooping  twigs  crowd- 
ed with  red-purple  fruit  to  the  bigness  of 
your  linger.  What  scarlet  cones  of  sumach, 
too — what  fruit  of  bramble  and  partridge 
vine — what  seed  of  grass  and  weed  !  No 
wonder  the  place  is  awhir  with  wings — that 
fine,  faint  footmarks  write  on  the  snow  the 
tale  of  other  comers.  Squirrels  have  crept 
down  to  drink.  Brer  Possum  has  dragged 
himself  clumsily  hither.  There  are  deep 
footmarks,  too,  to  say  Reynard  the  Fox  has 
gone  padding  past.  He  is  a  delicate  drink- 


13 

er,  though,  and  would  scarce  bring  himself 
to  lap  this  bitter  water. 

It  begins  to  skim  over.  In  spite  of  its 
gliding  ripples,  long,  slender,  jagged  crystals 
shoot  out  from  either  bank.  The  sun  is  al- 
most down.  The  wind  has  taken  on  an  edge 
of  steel.  Darkness  shall  see  these  shooting 
lines  of  ice  locked  in  one  glassy  whole,  save 
and  except  at  the  "boiling  holes,"  where 
waters  of  the  upland  dance  out  to  meet  the 
drainings  of  the  swamp.  They  will  save 
flock  and  feather  from  thirst  through  the 
little  space  of  cold. 

Three  days  is  its  utmost  limit.  For  see, 
the  moon  rides  in  the  west — a  new  crescent 
moon,  barely  able  to  silver  this  white  world. 
She  holds  a  star  in  her  horns,  hangs  far  to 
south — sure  portents  that  the  wind  will  fol- 
low her  long  ere  she  swells  to  quarter. 
Night  falls  without  darkness,  j  From  earth 
to  sky  there  is  ebb  and  flow  of  light.  All 
the  happy  huntsmen  are  trooping  home,  hun- 
gry and  full-handed,  to  hearth-fires  glowing 
red.  There  is  no  sound  abroad  save  the 
sough  of  wind  through  snow -clad  boughs, 
undervoiced  by  the  faint  complex  human 
hum.  Presently  a  fine  note  breaks  through — 
the  bell  in  a  town-steeple  is  ringing  its  call 
to  prayer.  So  far,  so  faint,  it  is  barely  a 


ghost  of  sou  ad,  fitting  well  with  this  spectral 
world,  lying  so  low  and  still  beneath  crowd- 
ing stars.  V/i/iAu.  jfuA^X^o- 

Shut  you  straitly  away  from  it.  -  Draw 
curtains  close ;  pile  on  logs  till  the  red  flame 
leaps  up  the  chimney  throat.  Bid  winter 
avaunt  as  you  sun  you  in  its  warmth,  and  in 
its  deep  heart  you  shall  see  visions,  dream 
dreams, 


NEW  GROUND 


LL  the  Dryads  are  awailing — 
ruin  has  fallen  heavy  on  their 
immemorial  haunts.  Steel  is 
eating  to  the  heart  of  oak  and 
beech,  and  walnut  and  hickory. 
Giants  primeval,  they  must  all  lie  low  that 
corn  may  laugh  in  their  stead,  or  wheat 
wave  yellow,  or  rank  tobacco  stand  aglisten 
in  the  sun.  After  all,  axe  and  plough  are 
your  real  Vandals.  They  overrun,  destroy, 
the  forest's  royal  savagery,  turn  all  its  seat 
to  tame  fields  ready  for  lowliest  use. 

The  fatness  of  fresh  ground  delights  all 
growing  things.  Grain,  flower,  or  weed  gets 
root,  strength,  substance,  as  by  magic.  What 
wonder  man,  living  in  the  sweat  of  his 
brow,  has  scant  reverence  for  green  trees — 
holds  them  but  cumberers  of  the  ground. 
Useful,  indeed,  for  shade  and  timber  and 
firewood,  but  not  one  to  be  set  over  against 
the  sweet,  the  fat,  that  may  be  wrought  in 
their  stead. 


i6 


He  falls  furiously  upon  them,  intent  to 
carve  from  among  them  a  broad  foundation 
for  his  fortune.  Yearly  his  fields  encroach, 
the  remnant  grows  thinner,  but  none  the 
less  sturdy.  The  last  of  race  and  line  waves 
defiance  to  conquering  steel  as  stoutly  as 
it  has  done  to  a  century's  storms.  When 
needs  must,  it  comes  crashing  to  earth ;  cleft 
so  bitterly  from  its  brave  root,  it  still  holds 
up  to  heaven  protesting  branches,  crying 
aloud  against  this  sylvan  sacrilege. 

Trees  give  room  only  through  steel  and 
fire.  The  felling  is  not  a  tenth  part  of 
the  battle.  Have  you  ever  thought  what  it 
means  to  wrest  an  empire  from  the  wilder- 
ness ?  Do  but  look  at  those  four  sturdy 
fellows,  racing,  as  for  life,  to  the  great  yellow 
poplar's  heart.  Four  feet  through,  if  one- 
sap  and  heart  ateem  with  new  blood,  just  be- 
gun to  stir  in  this  February  sun — it  is  a  field 
as  fair,  as  strenuous,  as  any  whereon  athletes 
ever  won  a  triumph  of  mighty  muscle. 

You  thought  it  sapless — dormant.  The 
woodsmen  knew  better.  The  live  pinky- 
gray  of  bark,  the  flexible  fulness  of  twig, 
the  faint  loosening  of  scales,  the  bud — 
told  them  sap  was  running  up  before  even 
the  first  chip  parted  so  hard  from  the 
wounded  trunk.  Oak  in  the  sap  chips 


freely.  Poplar  is  tough  and  spongy — so  soft 
that  the  axe  buries  sometimes  half-way  to 
the  eye — so  deep  that  the  handle  splinters  in 
the  effort  of  withdrawal. 

The  racers  have  a  care  for  such  mis- 
chance. See  how  they  temper  their  stroke. 
Up,  down,  in,  out,  the  keen  blade  flashes  ; 
alow,  aloft.  Two  either  side,  they  stand, 
bending,  swaying,  flashing  steely  arcs  mo- 
mently over  and  around  them.  Heroes  of 
toil,  they  fight  with  this  towering  giant  a 
battle  to  delight  all  Walhalla's  warrior-gods. 

Listen  !  What  rhythm  of  stroke  !  If  the 
forest  must  fall,  could  it  wish  a  statelier 
death-knell  ?  The  pulsing  sound  throbs  up- 
hill, down  dell— ringing,  rolling,  in  long, 
reverberant  swells.  It  is  at  once  march  of 
doom,  anthem  of  promise,  whose  fulfilment 
Summer  shall  write  large  in  Plenty's  golden 
smile. 

With  a  wild  leap  the  great  tree  crashes 
downhill,  quivering  in  all  its  length,  vibrant 
to  tiniest  tip.  Its  conquerors  barely  breathe 
them  ere  they  mount  the  prostrate  trunk, 
measuring,  lopping,  tossing  in  piles  the 
fine  intricacy  of  small  branches.  Soon  they 
stand  arow,  each  in  his  allotted  place ;  axes 
fall  swift  and  swifter  on  the  wood  beneath 
their  feet.  Big  chips  and  small  go  splut- 


1 8 


tering  out  over  the  leafy  earth.  A  little 
space,  and  the  monarch  of  the  hill-side, 
last  night  so  tall  and  goodly  under  the  mid- 
night moon,  has  sunk  to  forms  of  use — lies 
in  mill-stocks,  in  firewood,  in  promiscuous 
brush-heaps  that  March  winds  soon  shall 
fan  to  flame  and  scatter  wide  in  ashes. 

Twenty  acres  for  new  ground.  Already 
the  axe-men  have  swept  over  ten.  Attila 
was  not  more  ruthless.  No  standing  thing 
has  escaped.  First  they  cut  down  the  un- 
derbrush at  root ;  laid  it  orderly  away  ;  left 
dusk-dim  aisles  all  through  this  God's  first 
temple.  One  by  one  the  aisles  have  van- 
ished. The  clear,  pale  sunshine  plays  wan- 
ton-free over  virgin  soil  long  hidden  from 
his  beaming.  The  guardian  trunks  yet  lie 
thick  upon  it — as  though  even  in  death  they 
would  shield  the  mother-breast. 

Hither  and  yon  they  run.  It  is  no  feat 
to  walk  yards  stepping  from  trunk  to  trunk. 
By  and  by  the  rail-maker  will  come,  with 
wedge  and  maul,  to  rend  their  tough  hearts, 
rive  asunder  their  clear  sap.  Or  maybe  it 
is  the  stave-man — a  mighty  connoisseur  in 
timber.  It  must  be  thus  and  so — of  this 
size,  of  that  grain,  so  wide  betwixt  heart  and 
sap,  neither  brash  nor  warping,  free  of  knot 
or  windshake,  and  riving  true. 


19 

Given  those  conditions,  the  white -oak 
that  is  his  prey  may  end  its  usefulness  in 
fair  France  — or  even  twice  cross  blue  water, 
and  bring  back  over  sea  wine  o'  Burgundy; 
thin,  sour,  light  claret ;  or  even  the  yellow, 
mellow  Spanish  liquor  o'  Xeres.  If  they 
have  forests  over  there,  those  good  vine- 
growers,  they  have  need  to  conserve  them. 
Since  the  days  of  flat-boat  commerce  the 
Mississippi  has  borne  yearly  to  the  Cres- 
cent City  an  inland  tribute  of  pipe-staves, 
to  be  sent  across  the  sea. 

Most  like,  though,  no  stick  of  timber  shall 
go  over  the  plantation  line.  Fire  and  fence 
consume  it  ravenously ;  besides,  there  is 
building — log  walls,  clap-board,  roofs.  It 
was  necessary  timber  that,  a  hundred  years 
ago,  stayed  the  emigrant  tide  among  these 
hills,  beside  these  streams ;  left  the  wide 
prairie  country,  for  all  its  largess  of  tillable 
land,  to  beckon  in  vain,  and  lie,  seas  of 
grassy  solitude,  into  a  later  time. 

Shelter,  fire,  and  water  this  land  assured. 
Stroll  on  down  to  the  waterside.  A  fair 
spring  bubbles  there  —  fresh  and  warm  — 
warm,  that  is,  by  contrast  with  this  keen 
air.  Each  axe-man,  half-spent  and  athirst, 
drops  prone  beside  it,  and  drinks,  all  harm- 
less, his  fill  of  sweet  water.  Now  they  are 


20 


gone  cheerly  away,  lie  you  down  in  their 
stead  ;  let  the  gliding  current  lave  hand  and 
lip ;  pick  a  fine  white  pebble  from  its  bub- 
bling bed,  a  trail  of  green  moss  from  the 
edge,  and  you  shall  hold  a  talisman. 

Bear  it  far  as  you  will  —  to  the  solitude 
of  desert  or  city— you  have  but  to  lay  it  in 
your  hollowed  palm  or  close  against  your 
cheek,  and  with  shut  eyes  you  shall  see 
again  this  brown,  swelling  hill,  clear  for  half 
its  breadth,  this  tangle  of  bough  and  trunk, 
this  enlacement  of  vine ;  you  shall  hear 
again  beat  o'  axe,  rippling  water,  sighing 
sough  of  boughs  overhead,  wind  aruffie  in 
dry  leaves,  crows  calling  one  to  another 
across  the  open ;  above  all,  you  shall  smell 
bruised  bark  and  bud,  and  rifted  wood,  and 
new  earth,  crisping  at  the  touch  of  fire. 

The  dropping  sun  dips  half  below  the  sky- 
line. The  wind  freshens.  The  plant-bed 
is  afire.  All  day  stout  arms  have  been  heap- 
ing it  high  with  brushwood,  with  round  sticks, 
with  logs  big  as  a  man  can  carry.  Twenty 
yards  square,  of  rich  slant  earth,  it  stands, 
a  red  line  to  windward,  creeping,  flickering, 
sending  before  it  licking  tongues  of  watery 
flame.  The  last  sun-ray  has  vanished — you 
would  never  see  such  burning  in  its  light. 
Let  the  wind  hold  steady  one  hour — here 


21 


will  be  only  coals  and  embers  and  burning 
brands. 

Winds  are  fickle  —  even  winds  of  sun- 
down. Dusk  falls  calm  and  stirless ;  the 
flame  sinks  —  languishes,  creeps  snail-slow 
through  the  brush,  barely  blackening  heav- 
ier fuel.  The  evening-star  comes,  big  and 
white,  into  the  west's  pale  glowing.  And  far 
away  to  southward  a  slow,  faint  haze  lies 
low  above  the  remaining  trees.  Wind  is 
under  it,  rain  in  its  breast.  The  men  run- 
ning hither  and  yon,  tossing  leaves  and 
brush  upon  the  dying  fire,  look  up  at  the 
cloud-wall  with  hope  and  fear. 

One  tall  fellow  raises  his  hand  ;  his  mates 
stop  still  and  lean,  in  shirt-sleeves,  against 
their  rakes,  looking  all  away  from  the  leader 
who  has  sprung  upon  a  tall  stump  and  whis- 
tles and  whistles  .for  wind. 

It  comes  at  dark — rushing,  roaring,  half 
a  hurricane.  The  plant-bed  is  one  huge 
flame ;  the  glare  of  its  burning  shows  red 
against  the  sky — now  faintly  murk,  yet  full 
of  veiled  stars.  The  wind  plays  tricks  with 
the  fire  —  hurls  brands  about  till  on  every 
hand  brush -piles  flame  twenty  feet  in  air. 
Lines  of  fire  run,  too,  all  along  the  trampled 
leaves.  If  once  they  reach  the  untouched 
wood,  havoc  indeed  will  be  wrought. 


All  the  dark  is  veined  with  red  light.  A 
month  hence  there  will  be  other  burnings. 
All  the  big  knots,  the  whorls,  the  forks — 
whatever,  indeed,  is  too  tough  for  axe  and 
wedge — heaped  together  in  huge  piles,  shall 
lie  smouldering  for  days,  with  bluebirds 
chirping  over  them  from  nests  safe  -  am- 
bushed in  high,  hollow  trees ;  blue-jays  flash- 
ing, screaming  athwart  the  waking  fields. 

Axe-men  eye  Master  Blue-jay  askance. 
He  is  well  known  to  go  o'  Fridays  and 
carry  sticks  to  the  devil.  With  that  fuel 
you  shall  be  burned  if  by  any  chance  you 
stick  blade  into  the  tree  whereon  he  is 
aperch  and  he  flies  away  over  your  head. 
Indeed,  he  is  a  general  bringer  of  ill-luck — 
hooted  at,  pelted  away  with  stones.  The 
tree  that  holds  his  nest  is  marked  for  de- 
struction— but  no  well-informed  woodsman 
will  sit  by  a  fire  of  it.  He  would  nearly  as 
soon  tempt  fate  by  burning  upon  his  own 
hearth  wood  that  the  lightning  has  touched. 
"  Thunder-struck,"  he  calls  it.  Even  upon 
the  log-pile  he  scents  danger — of  frost,  or 
hail,  or  wind-torn  crops.  He  drags  it  care- 
fully outside  the  clearing,  there  to  thaw  and 
resolve  into  its  original  elements  unhelped 
by  fire's  red  rage. 

Steadily,  patiently  he  toils,  singing  often 


23 

at  his  work.  The  sun  climbs  high  and 
higher.  From  the  rising  to  the  going  down 
thereof  he  rakes  and  grubs.  The  smoke 
of  his  burning  —  at  night,  at  morning  — 
hangs  blue  wreaths  along  all  the  hills.  At 
last  comes  the  coulter,  as  cruelly  sharp  as 
justice.  Soberly,  with  low  heads,  with  strain- 
ing necks,  the  team  drag  it — cutting,  rend- 
ing all  the  tender  roots.  Each  long,  black 
furrow  is  a  trail  of  woodland  blood.  Once 
and  across  the  narrow  plough  goes.  The 
harrow  behind  it  fairly  chokes  with  mangled 
roots.  What  fine  earth  it  leaves  ! — so  light, 
so  soft,  so  fragrant.  The  smell  of  it  out- 
matches even  the  swelling  buds  —  those 
small,  brown,  scaly  miracles  that  so  cun- 
ningly enfold  the  mystery  of  growth,  the 
glory  of  flower  and  leaf. 

Now  it  lies  ready  for  planting.  Happy 
the  seed,  the  root,  whose  lines  fall  in  such 
place.  If  the  Dryads  must  seek  new  groves, 
the  fowls  of  the  air  new  nests — rejoice  and 
be  glad  that  Nature's  alchemy  shall  return 
toil  so  strenuous  in  corn  and  wine. 


AT   FLOOD 


WET  world  this,  my  masters. 
Not  dank  and  dripping,  but  all 
awash.  Saith  not  the  prov- 
erb, 

"Wind  i*  the  south, 
It's  in  the  rain's  mouth  "  ? 

How  dully  it  blows — reaching  humid,  lan- 
guorous fingers  in  slow  caress  over  all  the 
wakening  world.  How  gray  and  low  the 
clouds  lie,  pouring,  pelting,  till  racing  run- 
nels furrow  all  the  hill-sides,  till  creek,  mill- 
stream,  river,  dash  down  at  foaming  flood. 
All  the  level  is  sheeted  water.  The  swales 
show  each  a  glimmering  pool.  Far  off  you 
hear  the  boom  of  heavy  waters ;  overhead, 
all  day  long,  the  deep  tattoo  of  big  drops 
on  the  roof. 

Not  a  monotonous  drip,  drip.  This  rain 
never  slackens,  but  ever  and  anon  some 
surcharged  cloud  sweeps  low  through  the 
sky,  pouring  out  a  thunderous  deluge. 


25_ 

Through  such  downfalls  the  lightning  faint- 
ly shimmers,  far,  low  mutterings  of  the  thun- 
der undervoice  the  plashing  rain.  Its  long, 
gray,  slanting  lines  build  a  watery  wall  about 
us.  The  eye  cannot  pierce  it  fifty  yards. 
Trees,  almost  tapping  at  the  window-pane, 
stand  ghostly- dim  against  it,  with  hardly  a 
sighing  sweep  amid  all  their  half-seen  bud- 
ded boughs. 

The  sky  is  moveless,  moulded  all  of 
cloud,  and  changing  only  in  depth  of  hue. 
Through  the  fine,  steady  fall  it  is  palely  dun. 
Heavy,  washing  rain  comes  out  of'  one, 
darkly  gray-purple — so  black,  indeed,  that 
ofttimes  darkness  covers  the  face  of  earth. 

Through  nights,  through  days,  it  pelts  the 
sodden  mould.  Still  the  wind  sits  at  south, 
a  giant  at  ease,  the  clouds  all  in  his  eye. 
Presently  a  short,  sharp  gust  blows  out  of 
the  west.  Another,  still  another,  fitful, 
snarling,  furrowing  the  cloud  into  long 
leaden  ridges,  that  break  and  tumble  one 
over  the  other,  as  this  new  ill -wind  doth 
visit  them  so  roughly. 

Now  rain  falls  only  in  spurts  and  spits. 
The  cloud  parts — for  a  minute  you  see 
through  the  rift  the  laughing  blue  beyond. 
Now  the  gray  ridgy  pall  falls  over  it.  A 
sharp  touch  comes  into  the  air — more  than 


26 


a  hint  of  frost,  but  not  for  this  night.  The 
wind  blows  half  a  gale — a  conqueror  inso- 
lent of  victory.  Upland  he  sets  all  the  world 
aroar.  Lowland  levels,  under  the  lee  of 
sharp  hills,  hold  the  calm  of  a  great  peace. 

How  rarely  the  waters  brawl !  From 
every  hand  comes  up  a  thread  of  singing. 
How  clear  they  run,  all  awreath  with  foam- 
bells.  Even  ploughland  and  fallow  are 
beaten  hard  by  such  floods.  These  waters 
shine  whiter  far  than  those  from  out  the 
woodland,  wherein  still  there  lurks  some 
taint  of  leaf  and  root.  What  haste  they 
make  all  to  the  great  swale,  now  all  over  a 
lake  to  swim  man  and  horse.  One  side  is 
the  long,  sloping  water-shed  spread  over  how 
many  hundred  acres.  The  other,  a  rim  of 
steep,  low,  rounded  hills;  under  which  the 
waters  must  tunnel  and  burrow  to  level  of 
valley  streams.  All  the  hill-foot  is  honey- 
combed with  sink-holes— round,  small  pits, 
darkly  deep — running  down,  down  straight 
through  loam  and  clay,  then  bending  to 
channel  under  the  rock-ribs  of  the  hills. 

Thence  come  caves.  Such  runnings  un- 
derground abound  in  this  limestone  land. 
Before  you  leave  the  wide,  gray,  sullen  wa- 
ter— here  to-day,  to-morrow  vanished — stand 
a  minute  on  the  hither  verge,  to  look  over 


27 

the  pallid  earth.  It  lies  weary,  patient,  sad- 
colored  under  this  breaking  sky.  Nowhere 
a  hue  of  hope.  The  woodland  stands  dim 
and  cheerless  for  all  its  promise  of  buds, 
with  such  trees  as  have  been  lured  into 
blossom  but  poor  ghosts  in  rags  and  tatters. 
Young  grass  and  wheat  show  drowned  and 
sickly  green.  It  seems  worse  than  idle  to 
dream  of  growth  and  blowth  over  such 
drenched,  hopeless  breadths.  Fruitful  sum- 
mer, indeed,  looks  further  away  than  when 
sleet-bespangled  snow  lay  white. 

The  raw  wind  chills  the  marrow,  but  look 
overhead.  See  summer's  true  harbinger — 
wild  fowl  in  flight.  In  the  lazy  south  wind, 
the  pouring  rain,  they  heard  a  call  invisible 
to  your  ears,  and  are  winging  to  answer  it. 
See  the  wisp  of  blue-wing  pause  in  mid- 
heaven,  hover  and  circle  above  the  flooded 
swale,  then  drop  to  its  rocking  breast. 
There  they  will  rest  and  feed  —  diving, 
splashing,  calling  aloud  in  sibilant,  wheed- 
ling chatter — till  some  gunner  creeps  upon 
them  and  showers  them  with  leaden  hail. 

Wild  geese  are  more  wary.  Seldom,  in- 
deed, do  they  dare  in  broad  daylight  waters 
thus  in  the  open.  They  make  for  the 
covert  of  wooded  streams,  feeding  thence 
at  night  in  some  near  wheat-field  or  corn- 


28 


stubble.  And  high  above  these  honking 
companies — so  high,  so  far,  the  eye  barely 
notes  them — you  see  by  ones  or  twos,  or  at 
most  threes,  white-winged  specks,  sweeping 
ever  to  north  upon  powerful  pinions,  too 
tireless  to  need  pause  or  stay.  Those  are 
the  great  wild  swans — known  to  folk  of  the 
country-side  as  bog-eagles.  All  winter  long 
they  have  plashed  and  preened  in  gulf- 
marshes,  in  lake  and  bayou  inland.  Now, 
the  woodsmen  tell  you,  they  are  bound  for 
the  North  Pole,  and  will  make  no  stop  this 
side  that  resting-place. 

Certainly,  these  puny  pools  must  ill-tempt 
a  bird  so  majestic— flying,  too,  so  high  that 
its  harsh,  ear -piercing  note  comes  to  you 
the  faintest  dissonance.  But  it  might  stop 
at  the  river-side.  There  miles  upon  miles  of 
still,  gray,  waveless  waters  lie  wide  over  the 
bottoms,  either  side  the  racing  flood.  For 
our  river  runs  down  to  a  greater,  that  is 
likewise  at  the  flood-mark.  All  the  hundred 
miles  betwixt  us  and  the  mouth,  back  water 
spreads,  smoothly  lapping,  faintly  eddying, 
over  all  the  level  land. 

There  it  lays  up  the  tribute  of  its  hun- 
dred racing  streams.  Each  comes  to  it, 
bearing  gift  of  rich  earth  and  sand  and  silt, 
stolen  from  hill-side  or  hollow  or  its  own 


2Q 

crumbling  banks.  The  thrifty  river  takes 
all,  but  cannot  store  it  within  its  own  proper 
channel.  That  were  hazardous,  indeed.  A 
little  while,  and  its  bed  would  be  dry  land. 
So  the  wild  current  sweeps  it  aside,  flinging 
it  out  to  the  eddy  waters  that  run  back  to 
the  hills.  Therein  all  the  fine,  small  grains 
fall  slowly,  slowly,  till  when  the  waters  go 
out  they  leave  a  new  earth  behind. 

New  earth,  new  life.  After  it,  over  it, 
what  grass  shall  laugh  to  sunlight !  What 
corn  shall  toss  i'  the  wind !  What  bursting 
plenty  in  barn  and  byre !  What  grace  of  new, 
strange  water-sown  flowers  !  What  strength 
and  fulness  of  leaf  and  root.  As  stars  keep 
their  allotted  courses,  so,  too,  do  wind  and 
water  and  pelting  cloud  work  together  that 
this  our  earth  may  be  fruitful,  green,  and 
good. 


WINDS   O'   MARCH 

t,OUR  truest  weather  chameleon  is 
the  March  wind.  April  breezes 
may  be  daintily  fickle — aweep, 
asmile  in  the  self-same  hour 
— but  it  is  wind  o'  March  that 
sits  steady  in  the  south,  blowing  high,  blow- 
ing low,  till  spring  laughs  through  all  the 
land,  then  whirls  him  to  the  bitter  north- 
west, piles  cloud  on  cloud,  pelts  all  the  world 
with  sleet. 

He  spares  not  even  the 

"Daffodils, 

That  come  before  the  swallow  dares,  and  take 
The  winds  of  March  with  beauty." 

Captive  he  may  be,  yet  thrice  cruel  to  his  love. 
See !  he  has  bedecked  her  with  such  weight 
of  diamonds  her  yellow  head  lies  low,  never 
to  rise  again,  nor  dance  and  ruffle  it,  when 
softer  airs  do  blow.  Perhaps  his  thought 
is  to  make  the  world  so  splendid,  no  eye 
would  ever  miss  the  fine  glory  of  blossoms. 
A  true  enchanter  he !  Yesterday  the  world 


lay  gray  and  sodden  under  a  dripping  sky. 
Then  his  laden  legions  came  hurrying  pell- 
mell  out  of  the  north,  with  store  of  pearl 
and  silver  and  crystal.  He  commanded, 
it  stood  fast;  he  spake,  it  was  done  —  a 
waking  world  outdazzles  Fairyland. 

It  must  be  these  are  the  borrowing-days. 
Saith  the  old  rhyme  : 

"  March  borrowed  frae  April 
Three  days,  and  they  were  ill. 
The  first  o'  them  was  wind  and  weet  ; 
The  next  o'  them  was  snaw  and  sleet  ; 
The  third  o'  them  was  sic  a  freeze 
That  the  birds'  legs  stuck  to  the  trees." 

If  the  birds  are  not  fast  it  must  be  because 
they  have  all  got  to  cover.  Nowhere  any 
bare  twig  invites  their  perch.  You  will  find 
them  all  ahuddle — under  eaves,  in  barns  and 
hay-lofts — wherever  they  could  safely  bide 
through  the  pelting  of  this  pitiless  storm. 

Do  but  look  down  the  avenue.  Long 
boughs  either  hand  roof  it  over  with  crjjstal 
fret-work ;  the  road  winds  through  a  floor 
of  beaten  silver,  and  fence  and  hedge  drip 
silver  fringe. 

Grass-land  and  wheat  show  emerald,  set 
under  seas  of  glass.  Orchard  boughs  bend 
low  in  grottoes  such  as  Elfland  never  knew. 
Sunrise  flings  through  and  over  it  an  in- 


32 

tolerable  splendor.  Especially  here  in  the 
waste-land,  where  weed  and  brier  and  tall, 
feathery  sedge  are  bent,  tossed,  writhen, 
curved — each  and  all  aglisten  in  armor  of 
ice.  You  have  no  heart  to  shatter  aught  so 
exquisite.  The  cunningest  workman,  even 
of  the  gnomes,  could  not  shape  such  crystal 
plumes  as  overlie  the  yellow  sedge.  Truly 
it  is  gold  bediamonded.  Do  not  grudge  the 
poor  grass  its  brief  splendor.  Twelve  o'  the 
clock  in  sunshine  will  see  this  Cinderella  of 
the  fields  once  again  in  rags  and  tatters. 

Leave  the  field-path  unbroken,  and  skirt 
the  forest's  edge,  climbing  slow  and  pain- 
fully to  the  hill-top  at  cost  of  many  falls. 
Thence  the  clear  valley  unrolls  before  you 
as  a  scroll.  To  eastward  what  glow,  what 
splendor,  what  powdering  of  rainbows,  as 
the  sun  swims  slow  above  the  sea  of  crystal 
boughs.  Now  and  again  one  snaps,  topples 
sharply  for  a  breath's  space,  then  crashes 
to  its  fall.  Excess  of  splendor  is  perilous 
always.  My  word  for  it,  the  trees  will  be 
joyful  at  end  of  this  gorgeous  masking. 

Turn  your  dazzled  gaze  to  westward. 
There  the  pale,  dipping  verge  throws  up 
a  crystalline  forest-rim,  with  high-lights  of 
gray  lustre,  with  swimming  space-shadows, 
to  accent  this  world  alight.  Overhead  is  a 


33 

sky  blue,  brilliant,  .intense,  hard.  March 
winds  have  blown  out  of  it  all  hint  of  soft- 
ness. Not  one  lingering,  trailing  cirrus 
deepens  the  cold  east's  pallid  rose.  The 
wings  of  the  morning  have  borne  them  all 
away.  Far,  far  to  southward,  maybe,  they 
distil  in  gentle  showers  upon  orange  and 
palm  and  pine — forgetting,  amid  such  wealth 
of  tropic  bloom,  this  temperate  earth,  bedia- 
monded  as  for  a  bridal — the  bridal  of  flower 
and  sun. 

Through  the  intervening  valley  the  creek 
roars  at  flood — a  water-giant,  turbid,  yel- 
low, too  strong  for  the  fettering  of  frost. 
Look  well  at  its  fringing  trees.  Elm,  ash, 
maple,  listened  all  to  the  traitor,  wind, 
while  he  wooed  soft — so  soft!  See  them 
all  atassel.  Their  green,  thready  bloom 
droops  piteously  indeed.  A  little  while, 
and  it  will  lose  its  crystal  bravery,  to  fall 
earthward,  dark  and  dank,  leaving  behind 
it  no  memory  of  fruit. 

Here,  tree  and  field  show  heavy-white  with 
rime.  So  much  they  owe  to  the  brawling 
water.  The  last  touch  of  this  enchantment, 
the  earliest  sun  shall  make  it  to  vanish. 
Now  he  is  risen  to  half  the  zenith's  arc. 
On  every  hand  you  hear  snapping,  crash- 
ing, tinkling.  The  sleet  is  breaking  up. 
3 


34 

The  crusted  earth  lies  all  a  watery  quag- 
mire. Even  the  sharp  hill-slopes  run  sheet- 
ed water.  The  hollows  gather  to  themselves 
rills  and  pools  as  clear  as  when  they  fell  over 
the  world,  the  Ice-Queen's  silvern  tears. 

And  winds  o'  March  do  blow — blow  out 
of  all  the  heavens.  To  this  sunny  lee  slope 
comes  one,  soft  as  the  breath  of  May.  With 
what  light  touch  he  lifts  the  slender  hazel, 
at  morning  bent  to  earth.  How  gentle 
his  spiriting  to  the  wind-flowers  at  its  root. 
Pale,  broken,  dainty  darlings !  you  blos- 
somed but  to  die.  The  pert,  small  blue 
sweet-heart  laughs  you  quite  to  scorn. 
Even  before  you  it  starred  the  hill-side  with 
its  clustered  crosses.  When  the  sleet  fell, 
hard  and  heavy,  it  sank  to  the  shelter  of  its 
mossy  bed.  Now  that  sun-rays  lie  warm,  it 
springs  up,  shouting  with  all  its  tiny  voices, 
"  Here  am  I — look  at  me.  Love  me — the 
spring's  fair,  first,  spoiled  child." 

Leave  far  this  piping  flower,  this  puling 
breeze.  Come  stand  in  clear  space,  where 
all  around,  about,  a  west  wind — resonant, 
conquering,  vivifying — plays  on  the  forest- 
organ  the  anthem  of  resurrection.  Under 
trees  themselves  you  shall  not  half  so  hear 
its  sweep  and  swell,  its  rolling  diapason, 
its  chant  of  rejoicing,  its  trumpeting  of  vie- 


35 


tory.  It  owns  full  power  of  the  air.  Low 
as  the  earth  it  comes,  up  to  heaven  it 
reaches,  a  solid,  moving  wall,  mighty  as  it 
is  invisible. 

So  it  blows  and  blows — rushing,  rending, 
drinking  up  the  waters  from  the  face  of 
earth  as  chaff  before  fire.  Sometimes  it 
veers  to  north.  Then  frost  binds  hard,  and 
bites.  For  the  most  part  it  keeps  constant 
in  the  west,  and  saith  not  the  proverb, 

"  Wind  i'  the  west 
Weather  at  the  best." 

Certainly  the  farmers  think  so.  Witness 
the  ploughman's  proverb,  "A  peck  of  March 
dust  is  worth  a  king's  ransom." 

For  when  March  dust  flies  seed  time  goes 
so  well,  so  merrily,  as  to  promise  full  har- 
vest. Under  the  waxing  sun  lambs  skip 
and  play  across  the  greening  grass.  There 
may  be  gray  days,  sharp  and  bleak,  yet  all 
the  world  thrills  to  feel  that  winter  is  be- 
hind. By  and  by  the  clouds  rift — lighten — 
grow  high  and  white  and  woolly — at  last 
melt  out  of  sight.  Winds  lull  to  the  merest 
breath  —  you  say,  rejoicing,  "It  is  April 
weather." 

Have  a  care.  Who  knows  what  treachery 
may  lurk  under  that  specious  seeming.  Who 


36 

knows  what  cloud  is  marshalling,  with  light- 
ning's red  wrath  in  its  breast ;  in  what  cave 
o'  the  winds  Eolus,  the  father  of  them,  is 
tempering  his  cyclones  for  a  dance  of 
death.  At  morning,  maybe,  you  wake  into 
a  hot  stillness  that  clings,  stifles,  till  you 
gasp  and  pant.  Overhead  is  no  fold  or 
break.  Everywhere  a  dense,  watery  opacity 
with  no  saving  downpour.  The  hours  go 
leaden-footed — all  life  is  afaint,  with  bur- 
dened breathing  in  this  close,  stolid  air. 

Presently  a  sobbing  gasp  comes  through 
it — another — another.  A  fitful  wind  blows 
out  from  the  lowest  cloud.  A  fine,  sharp, 
crackling  swell  comes  with  it.  The  weather- 
wise  sniff  it,  to  say,  shaking  the  head, 
"Thunder  in  the  air."  Soon  it  smites  the 
ear  —  pealing,  booming,  sullen  —  afar  off. 
The  low  clouds  stir — drift  languidly  over- 
head, letting  fall  a  few  big  drops.  Above 
them,  sailing  against,  in  the  southwest,  a 
cloud  shape  comes,  born  with  the  speed  of 
light.  All  its  greenish-copper  hue  is  seamed 
with  white,  darting  fire.  Wind-torn,  thunder- 
riven,  it  leaps  along  the  earth— rising,  fall- 
ing, rending,  roaring,  grinding  to  powder 
whatever  withstands  its  wrath ;  pelting  all 
the  sweet  new  world  with  big  sheets  of  rain, 
with  stinging  broadsides  of  hail ;  flinging 


37 

balls  of  fire  to  furrow  anew  the  bare,  level 
ploughland. 

Quickly  it  comes  and  goes,  a  very  scourge 
of  the  air,  leaving  ruth  and  ruin  along  its 
narrow  path.  A  chill  wind  and  watery  sighs 
after  it  —  pale  and  perfidious,  a  mourner 
secretly  rejoicing  in  the  havoc  he  is  set  to 
bewail.  At  last  he  blows  him  out ;  the  sun 
shines,  and  green  things  uplift  to  his  ray 
their  bruised  heads.  Long  before  high 
summer  they  will  have  no  memory  even  of 
hurt.  But  the  great  oak,  wrenched  away 
from  the  root,  shall  lie  still  and  stark,  with 
no  hope  of  resurrection. 


A  LITTLE    EARTH 


*OME  tread  with  me  the  measure 
of  the  fields.  The  year,  the 
world,  has  but  just  smiled  into 
full  waking.  A  long,  slant 
splendor  of  early  sun-rays  gold- 
tips  the  budding  trees.  Through  the  wind- 
less air  smoke  rises  in  thin,  blue  columns, 
to  waver  and  fade  out  in  the  light-flooded 
sky. 

Now,  truly, 

"  Jocund  day 
Stands  tiptoe  on  the  misty  mountain-top." 

Listen  the  joyful  noise  of  mating  birds,  of 
tinkling  waters  arace  to  the  far  sea,  of  hoof- 
beat,  of  chain-clank,  and  loud-throated  sing- 
ing, as  ploughmen  troop  to  turn  the  steamy 
earth. 

Verily  a  heartsome  task.  See  the  bright 
share  slip  along,  mellow  mould  crumbling 
away  from  it  to  lie  loose  and  fresh  behind. 
What  fine,  vital  breath  it  has  ?  Clean,  uplift- 
ing, truly  the  odor  of  immortality.  Older 


39 

than  time  it  shall  endure  till  the  rocks  burn 
and  waste,  the  heavens  be  rolled  away  as  a 
scroll.  Likewise  full  of  contrast.  Here  in 
the  lowland  the  fat,  black  earth,  full  of 
rounded,  unctuous  pebbles,  has  a  fine,  moist 
breath — subtile,  suggestive — that  somehow 
brings  with  it  the  noise  of  shaken  reeds. 
Rightly  enough,  too.  Less  than  a  hundred 
years  back  all  this  level  was  arustle  with 
tall,  green  cane.  Deer  fed  fat  on  it,  bear 
lay  in  wait  to  make  prey  of  fawn  or  doe — 
mayhap  also  themselves  to  perish,  spiked 
through  with  antler-thrusts  from  a  stag  of  ten. 
Settlers  came  in— by  twos,  by  threes — built 
cabins  of  round  poles  to  shelter  them  while 
they  cut  roads  through  the  cane.  The  first 
white  owner  of  these  acres  made  a  path  to 
his  next  neighbor's,  eleven  miles  away,  and 
either  hand,  along  every  foot  of  it,  the  reeds 
upraised  a  green,  whispering  rampart,  so 
high  that  a  man  on  horseback  was  com- 
pletely hidden.  The  few  highwaymen  of 
that  time  by  turns  blessed  and  cursed  the 
cane-brake.  If  it  hid  themselves,  their  vic- 
tims, past  finding,  it  likewise  made  flight 
impossible,  save  by  known  and  beaten  ways, 
communication  across  even  the  shortest 
space  a  matter  so  difficult  as  to  be  always 
full  of  risk. 


40 

They  were  rarely  enviable  folk,  those  pio- 
neers. For  the  most  part  they  left  behind 
the  pine  and  sand  of  the  seaboard  for  this 
rich  in-lying  valley.  A  true  land  of  prom- 
ise, flowing  with  milk  and  honey,  it  must 
have  seemed  to  them.  No  wonder  when 
the  first  venturous  spirits  went  back  over 
the  mountains  the  fame  of  it  lured  a-many 
to  enter  in  and  possess. 

What  crystal  clearness  of  streams,  whose 
banks  bore  never  a  furrow — what  spread  of 
forest,  unmarred  by  axe  or  fire — what  ver- 
durous glades — what  wealth  of  vine,  and 
flower,  and  nut,  and  fruit  ?  Beyond  all,  the 
cane — so  tall,  so  thick,  so  slender — whisper- 
ing to  every  babbling  wind  all  the  promise, 
the  fulness,  of  the  rich  soil  at  its  root.  It 
is  the  gracefulest  plant  alive.  Do  but  close 
your  eyes  and  try  to  see  all  adown  this  long, 
long  furrow  a  myriad  ghosts  standing  thick 
and  tall,  all  slender  and  glistening,  breaking 
out  in  sharp  green  leaves  along  their  taper 
length,  tremulous,  sighing,  all  ashiver  at  the 
wind's  least  touch.  What  harmony  sighs 
through  it !  Here  is  your  true  Pan's  pipe. 
Syrinx  is  not  dead,  nor  shall  be  forgotten. 
While  one  of  these  green  things  endures' 
the  myth  shall  have  power.  Life,  reading 
its  riddle,  shall  understand  that  out  of  the 


heart's  desire,  turned  aside  from  fulfilment, 
shall  come  music  and  sweetness  far  beyond 
love. 

Come  now  to  the  fallow,  first  upturned  last 
fall.  It  had  lain  three  years  in  clover.  See 
the  big,  yellow -white  roots  of  it  standing 
topsy-turvy  all  over  it.  So  the  great  plough 
thrust  and  left  them,  often  with  but  the 
tiniest  hold.  Never  a  one,  though,  but  has 
made  the  best  of  it — has  kept  life  spite  of 
wind  and  snow — now  sends  up  its  sprays  of 
round,  gray-hearted  leaves.  How  fresh  and 
cheery  they  look,  all  dim  with  the  fine 
spring  dew.  Truly  it  is  pitiful  that  the  big 
share  needs  must  crush  and  overwhelm  the 
brave  green  buds  so  gallantly  upthrust. 
Lie  soft  upon  them,  gentle  Earth !  You 
must  live  by  such  doing,  such  undoing,  for 
you  give  out  a  fragrance  finer  than  all  the 
flowers. 

Drinking  it  in  long  draughts,  the  scent  of 
the  lowland  fades  quite  out  of  memory. 
What  is  all  its  light  blackness  beside  this 
brown  earth — so  mellow,  so  alive  to  the  foot 
— smelling  to  heaven  of  summer  and  heavy 
harvest.  The  plough-beasts  even  snuff  it 
gratefully.  They  draw  almost  at  the  trot, 
round  corners  without  lagging,  as  though 
they  knew  what  it  all  meant — bursting  cribs, 


42 

and  winter  days  full-fed  against  the  cold. 
Nor  stock  nor  stone  stays  progress  here. 
The  plough  speeds  so  steady,  a  bare  touch 
on  one  handle  keeps  the  furrow  straight 
and  true.  Round,  round  it  goes  in  ever- 
lessening  compass.  The  land  will  be  done 
long  ere  the  sun  is  down.  If  rain  holds 
away  the  week's  end  will  see  all  the  field 
fresh-ploughed. 

Then  how  sorry  the  birds  will  be.  In 
flocks,  in  clouds  almost,  they  settle  in  each 
new  furrow,  a  scant  length  behind  the 
plough,  hopping,  fluttering,  chirping,  pecking 
eagerly  at  all  the  luckless  creeping  things 
whose  deep  lairs  have  suffered  earthquake. 
A  motley  crowd  indeed !  Here  be  crow 
and  blackbird,  thrush  and  robin,  song-spar- 
row, bluebird,  bee-martin,  and  wren.  How 
they  peep  and  chirp,  looking  in  supercilious 
scorn  one  at  the  other,  making  short  flights 
over  each  other's  backs  to  settle  with  hov- 
ering motion  nearer,  ever  nearer,  the  plough. 
Who  shall  say  theirs  is  not  the  thrift,  the 
wisdom,  of  experience.  How  else  should 
they  know  thus  to  snatch  dainty  morsels — 
breakfast,  truly,  on  the  fat  of  the  land,  for 
only  the  trouble  of  picking  it  up  ?  All  day 
they  follow,  follow.  It  is  the  idle  time  now, 
when  they  are  not  under  pressure  of  nest- 


43 

making.  Though  mating  is  past,  yet  many 
a  pretty  courtship  goes  on  in  the  furrow. 
Birds  are  no  more  constant,  nor  beyond 
temptation,  than  are  we,  the  unfeathered  of 
bipeds. 

Duels,  too  —  fierce  encounters  betwixt 
aerial  warriors  all  aruffle,  dashing,  full  tilt, 
against  one  another,  ready  for  all  violence 
within  compass  of  beak  and  claw.  That 
tetchy  fellow,  the  bluebird,  is  ready  to  fight 
if  another  does  but  nod  polite  approval  of 
his  love.  Redbird  and  wren  are  likewise 
pugnacious — even  gentle  Robin  Redbreast 
develops  an  amazing  stomach  for  quarrel. 
Master  Blackbird  is  wiser  far.  If  his  dame 
goes  flirting  off  with  a  neighbor,  all  he  does 
is  to  sleek  and  preen  him  till  the  green  fire 
comes  out  over  all  his  dusky  coat,  sail  frol- 
icly  down  the  furrow,  seize  a  fat  white  grub, 
and  fly  with  it  to  some  high  place,  chatter- 
ing triumph  over  his  prize.  Madame,  hear- 
ing, flies  to  him  upon  the  instant,  there  is 
coy  reconciliation  over  the  feast,  and  both 
go  back  scatheless  to  search  for  another 
tidbit. 

Most  like  they  choose  a  new  field — one 
where  the  lean  earth  has  for  years  run  to 
waste.  Bush,  brake,  brier,  cover  the  face  of 
it.  Here  no  plough  can  pass  till  steel  and 


44 

fire  have  made  way  for  it.  Once  the  earth 
is  ready  for  turning  there  is  a  feast  indeed 
for  winged  things.  Though  the  cold,  wet 
clay  affords  never  an  earth-worm  it  has 
rich  store  of  bugs,  grubs,  beetles,  larvae. 
Not  one  of  the  huge  clods  but  holds  a 
Thanksgiving  dinner  for  the  feathered  for- 
agers. It  has  been  for.  so  long  their  city 
of  refuge  —  they  have  nested  there,  shel- 
tered them  against  cold  and  heat — they  are 
full  of  twittering  surprise  over  finding  it  also 
a  happy-hunting-ground. 

What  pungent,  savage  odor — bitter,  cling- 
ing— comes  up  from  the  furrow — the  smell 
of  wet  clay,  underlying  the  sharp  scent  of 
bruised  sassafras  and  brier-root.  The  plough 
has  torn  up  both  by  thousands,  by  ten  thou- 
sands. Steel  of  best  temper,  and  sharp 
though  it  be,  three  stout  beasts  abreast  have 
much  ado  to  drag  through  the  tangle  under- 
earth.  How  low  their  heads,  how  steady 
their  strain  against  the  collar.  Round  about 
the  field  they  go — once,  twice,  thrice — fling- 
ing barriers  of  damp  sod  'twixt  the  hedge- 
row and  the  wide  inner  wilderness. 

What  a  jungle  it  is — brier  and  bramble, 
sassafras  and  thorn,  furzy  fleeces  of  dry 
golden-rod,  over  and  through  all  a  masking 
of  yellow  sedge.  Through  the  daylight  the 


45 

field-hands  will  work  at  the  hedge-row.  The 
crooked  fence-corners  are  the  nursery  of  all 
vagrants.  Therein  you  will  find  cheek-by- 
jowl  peach  and  persimmon,  woodbine  from 
the  garden,  and  grape  o'  the  woods ;  young 
oaks,  seedling  apples— indeed  an  epitome 
of  all  that  grows  and  blows.  Or  wild  or 
tame,  they  must  give  room.  Axe,  bill-hook, 
brier-scythe,  flash  in  and  out— the  tangle  is 
tossed  this  way  and  that,  soon  to  be  piled 
in  great  matted  heaps  well  across  the  en- 
circling furrows. 

Sundown  shall  not  more  than  see  the  work 
well  done.  The  field  lies  crisp  and  dry, 
rustling  desolately  in  the  freshening  wind. 
It  seems  a  waste  place  all  predestinate — 
one  whose  reclamation  was  always  and  al- 
together hopeless.  •  The  belting,  sinuous 
furrows  seem  to  say  aloud,  "  Man  has  wres- 
tled with  the  wilderness — and  got  the  worst 
of  it." 

Wait  a  little  space.  See,  there  to  wind- 
ward, a  small,  leaping  flame,  carefully  kin- 
dled. A  torch-bearer  darts  away  from  it, 
another,  another.  Almost  as  you  draw 
breath,  a  line  of  fire  upflashes,  climbs, 
spreads,  wavers,  goes  roaring  down  the 
field's  breadth.  See  the  pure  red  flame 
leap  thirty  feet  in  air,  writhe,  bend,  toss, 


46 

curl  back  in  crested  billows.  It  licks  up 
sedge  and  weed  and  brier — all,  indeed,  save 
a  few  stout  stems  that  stand,  crackling 
ghosts  and  stark,  in  the  black  earth  behind 
it.  Tramp  stoutly  over  it — the  blackness 
is  but  light  embers.  Follow  the  flame, 
keeping  always  well  to  windward.  See 
bramble  and  saw-brier  change  to  writhing, 
fiery  serpents.  Hear  the  hollow  weed-stems 
fire  at  the  flame  a  fairy  fusillade. 

Mark,  too,  that  tall,  dead  tree,  standing 
lone  and  branchless,  far  at  the  lower  edge. 
Flame  has  not  yet  touched  its  root,  but  the 
top  sends  out  smoke,  glows  red  in  the  gath- 
ering dusk.  The  wind  bore  a  spark  to  it, 
and  kindled  it  as  by  magic  in  the  soft,  rot- 
ting wood.  Now  the  fire  has  reached  the 
foot  of  it — how  it  leaps-  and  roars,  licking 
up  bark  and  sap-wood,  making  the  poor  tree 
a  pillar  of  fire  !  All  night  it  shall  stand  — 
hissing,  glowing — a  fountain  of  red  sparks. 
At  morning  it  will  lie  prone  on  Mother 
Earth — a  blackened  skeleton,  yet  with  fire 
still  in  its  heart. 

Now  the  racing  flame  curls  over  the 
brush -heaps  —  the  last  enemy;  here  shall 
be  battle  -  royal.  As  the  issue  is  joined 
what  lurid  columns  leap  up ! — dancing,  wa- 
vering, drawing  one  to  another.  The  merry, 


47 


mad  Wind  loves  the  dance.  See  him  blow- 
ing in  gusty  joy — scattering  coal  and  brand, 
trying  with  all  his  might  to  send  his  scarlet 
sweetheart  across  the  saving  girdle  of  fur- 
rows. Once  she  was  in  the  wood,  where 
the  heaped  leaves  lie  so  dry  under  dead 
brush,  over  rotting  timber,  the  revel  might 
go  on  and  on — end  who  knows  where  ? 

The  field-hands  know  his  tricks.  They 
stand  sharply  at  guard,  stamping  out,  beat- 
ing back,  each  thready  flame  that  seeks  to 
cross  the  barrier.  Deep  into  the  dusk  they 
wait,  scattering  coals  from  the  brush-heaps, 
making  certain  that  no  spark  has  lodged 
in  the  fence  itself  or  in  the  wood  beyond. 
Stars  come  out  whitely  overhead ;  dew-fall 
begins ;  the  smoke  of  the  burning  drifts 
away  to  the  lowlands.  All  about  you 
breathes  the  keen,  aromatic  scent  of  half- 
burned  sassafras  sticks.  One  stout  fellow 
stoops  to  pull  up  a  fragrant  loosened  root, 
but  stops  as  a  wild  cry  comes  ringing  from 
the  swamp.  You  listen  with  all  your  ears. 
At  last  a  slow  voice  says,  "  Spring  must  be 
come  in  earnest.  Hear  the  whippoorwill." 


WHERE  THE   BEE  SUCKS 


»S  the  good  St.  Valentine  a  wiz- 
ard ?  What  magic  is  this  he 
hath  wrought  out  of  leafless 
boughs  ?  Madame  Plum-tree, 
dwarf  and  thorny,  wears  pow- 
dering of  pearl  from  top  to  toe.  The  La- 
dies Peach  blush  pinker  than  the  dawn  to  the 
tiniest  tip  of  all  their  flexile  twigs,  Dowa- 
ger-Duchess Pear  hath  veiled  her  in  white 
lace,  and  pert  Mademoiselle  Cherry  is  all 
atangle  with  green-white  buds. 

They  are  not  weather-wise — these  poor 
folk — for  all  their  rank  and  worth.  They 
little  dream  that,  near  two  weeks  back,  Mas- 
ter Ground-hog  crept  out  for  a  look  at 
things  —  chiefly  his  own  shadow,  could  he 
see  it  ? — thus  to  forecast  if  spring  were  late 
or  early.  He  did  see  a  shadow  —  sharp, 
black,  well-defined.  The  sun  shone  treach- 
erous-bright that  day.  With  a  snort  of  con- 
tempt for  such  fair  pretence,  Master  Ground- 
hog crept  back  to  his  hole  for  six  weeks 


49 

longer  of  napping.  If  thick  cloud  had  cov- 
ered the  sun  he  would  instead  have  gone 
ranging  abroad  for  a  meal  of  fresh  grass- 
roots and  early  buds. 

For  he  is  wise  in  the  unwrit  ways  of  wind 
and  weather— wise  enough  not  to  trust  the 
fickle  south  wind,  the  all -too -ardent  sun. 
In  his  shadow  he  reads  snow  and  sleet, 
cold  wind,  nipping  frost,  that  he  has  no 
mind  to  endure,  when  it  is  given  him  to  lie 
snug,  sleeping  on  to  the  spring's  warm 
height.  A  churl  he  must  be,  for  all  his 
wisdom  —  else  surely  he  might  whisper  a 
warning  to  these  believing  trees.  Perhaps, 
though,  silence  is  the  wiser,  the  better.  If 
they  heard  and  heeded,  what  lack  for  all 
the  bees. 

Hear  the  drone  of  them  ;  see  them  flash- 
ing, darting  in  and  out,  winging  away  full- 
laden  to  the  hive ;  hanging,  deliciously 
adrowse,  in  the  heart  of  pink  peach -flow- 
ers. What  wreathy  bloom  it  is,  crowded  so 
thick  along  each  budded  stalk.  If  only 
the  honey- gatherer  could  suck  and  store 
the  odor  of  it,  what  nectar  might  compare, 
though  served  by  Hebe's  hand?  A  fine, 
warm,  almond  scent,  it  clings  and  abides. 
The  falling  blossom  has  richer  scent  than 
the  fresh  one.  Richer  color,  too  —  deep, 
4 


50 

vivid — almost  a  crimson  scarlet  in  place  of 
the  delicate  pale  pinkness  so  rare  and  fine. 

A  generous  flower,  too  —  not  hoarding 
niggardly  its  sweets.  You  may  see,  taste 
even,  the  clear,  glistering  honey -drop  at 
bottom  of  its  cup.  What  wonder  bees  haunt 
the  orchard  so  long  as  one  flower  remains. 
What  wonder,  too,  the  treasure-trove  borne 
thence  is  next  to  the  sweet  from  raspberry 
blossoms  the  richest,  clearest,  fairest -fla- 
vored of  all  honey. 

Madame  Plum-tree,  too,  hath  honey  to 
match  her  thorns.  Her  fairy  blossoms 
burst  wide  even  earlier  than  her  pink  neigh- 
bor—  are  rifled  —  faint  and  fading,  as  the 
rosy  beauties  begin  to  peep  from  out  their 
russet  hoods.  A  fine,  heartsome  sweetness, 
too,  has  our  lady  of  thorns.  Not  so  subtile 
as  the  peach-scent,  yet  truly  vernal — one  to 
call  up  to  you  memory  of  half-heard  waters, 
of  faint  skies  softly  blue,  the  laugh  and 
cooing  of  a  little  child.  Curious,  is  it  not, 
that  aught  so  tender  can  be  nourished  with 
sap  from  so  spiny  a  stem  ?  Does  it  not  re- 
call the  dear  souls,  known  to  us  all,  who 
mask  with  rough  speech  hearts  gracious  to 
the  core  ? 

Madame  la  Duchesse,  for  all  her  white  be- 
dizenment,  is  scant  of  honey.  So,  too,  her 


later  plebeian  congener,  the  apple,  spite  all 
her  lavish  bewilderment  of  buds.  Both  are 
sickish  -  sweet  of  scent  —  a  heavy,  sullen 
odor  that  makes  the  low  wind  afaint.  Go 
a  little  way  off,  and  it  is  breath  of  Para- 
dise. Here,  under  thick-blossomed  boughs, 
it  makes  you  half  gasp  for  breath. 

Not  so  the  busy  bees — never  so  busy  as 
in  face  of  these  many  flowered  small  gains. 
See  how  sagely  they  pass  the  open,  rifled 
flowerets,  how  eagerly  they  thrust  them  be- 
twixt unfolding  petals  to  reach  the  un- 
touched heart.  Some  fly  homeward,  all 
powdered  like  courtiers  of  old  days.  They 
are  heaping  up  pollen  for  bee-bread.  Shortly 
there  will  be  new  broods — vagrant  swarms 
flying  out  to  settle  in  brown,  knotty,  crawl- 
ing clusters  on  fence  or  tree. 

But  first  rough  weather  shall  darken ;  keen 
winds  blow  out  of  the  sky ;  all  the  orchard 
blossoms  stand  naked,  shivering,  acold. 
Not  -one  in  the  million  of  this  white  en- 
chantment, this  rosy  cloud,  shall  come  to 
the  fruit.  Smitten  of  frost,  sapless,  withered, 
they  shall  fall  unheeded,  while  green  leaves 
laugh  out  under  bright,  wet  April  skies,  and 
make  the  mournful  boughs  again  to  dance 
in  sunshine. 

Then  bees  fly  high,  fly  low— far  and  high 


for  forest  sweets,  near  and  low  for  spoil  of 
the  pastures.  There  dandelions  uplift  ten 
thousand  small  gold  suns ;  white  clover, 
nun  o'  the  sward,  strings  pearls  along  its 
green.  Not  yet  is  it  at  blossomy  flood-tide. 
That  comes  later — when  the  nun's  big,  lag- 
gard purple  sister  is  bursting  sparsely  into 
flower.  Then,  indeed,  is  the  short  green 
turf  mottled  with  white  and  gold.  What 
sight  outrivals  a  stretch  of  dewy  sward,  with 
sunshine  flashing  rainbows  from  its  dia- 
monds, drawing  sweets  from  its  thick  pow- 
dering of  bloom  ?  May,  merry  month,  shall 
spread  such  along  all  the  sunny  road-sides, 
and  send  to  them  hovering  bees  in  winged 
clouds. 

There  the  bee  sucks — sucks  from  dawn  to 
fall  of  dew — unless,  indeed,  the  raspberry 
thicket  lures  to  its  breast.  The  honey- 
bearers  are  wise  after  their  kind.  They 
know  one  clover-head,  one  dandelion,  may 
drop,  another  springs  in  its  stead,  through 
weeks  of  sunshiny  weather.  And  raspberry 
blossom  endures  for  but  a  little  space — be- 
side yielding  a  honey  for  which  Titania, 
queen  of  fairies,  might  sigh.  What  wonder 
how  they  choose  in  this  embarrassment  of 
riches?  The  thicket  is  vocal  with  their 
droning  pipe.  Some  wing  to  it  straight- 


53 

away  from  the  hive,  some — the  most  part — 
fly  low  across  the  grass,  sipping  now  from 
this  white  chalice,  now  from  that,  nearer, 
ever  nearer,  till  the  last  short  flight  sets 
them,  half-sated,  in  the  heart  of  some  blos- 
som-clump, fine  and  green  -  fringed  and 
thorny-stemmed  indeed. 

Whoso  has  eaten  of  the  fruit  of  such  la- 
bors must  wonder  that  the  laborers,  save 
under  stress  of  hunger,  can  decline  to  any- 
thing so  commercial  and  coarse-flavored  as 
buckwheat.  It  is  bee-pasturage  of  man's 
providing.  The  honey  of  it  is  fair  to  see — 
rich  and  clear,  and  set  in  fine,  yellow-white 
comb ;  but,  ah  !  the  savor  of  it — a  heavy, 
cloying  sweet,  with  the  tang  of  artifice,  in- 
stead of  the  sweet  spontaneousness  of  Nat- 
ure's store. 

These  rangers  of  the  air  lay  wide  spans 
under  tribute.  Nor  vine,  nor  bush,  nor 
weedy  flower  escapes  them.  Neither  ripe 
fruit  of  any  sort,  once  it  begins  to  drip 
juice.  They  follow  close  upon  the  birds, 
and  grow  drunken  often  with  juice  of  grape, 
or  peach,  or  apple,  or  over  -  ripe  berries. 
About  wine-press  or  cider-mill  they  grow 
into  tipsy  loafers — buzzing,  swarming,  crawl- 
ing, eager  even  to  drown  them  in  the  rich- 
flavored  floods.  For  ages  the  little,  busy 


54 

bee  has  been  the  sum  and  pattern  of  indus- 
trious providence.  Who  knows  if,  after  all, 
the  model  insect  hath  not  at  bottom  a  stra- 
tum of  lazy  savagery,  that  circumstance  may 
develop  in  most  human  fashion. 


TREES  ABLOSSOM 


AVE  you  a  drop  of  gypsy  blood  ? 
Are  you  akin  to  the  wood 
sprites  ?  Then  come  with  me 
to  my  woodland.  It  is  full  of 
sombre  light  this  March  day. 
Upland  the  west  wind  makes  billows  of  bare 
branches.  Along  the  creeks  and  runnels 
he  is  shaking  out  green  elm  tassels  and 
scarlet  maple  flowers.  It  is  wonderful  how 
even  a  tiny  stream  quickens  vegetation. 
Here  upon  the  edge  of  the  sink-hole,  where 
the  spring  branch  goes  underground,  there 
is  a  scented  snow  of  wild  plum  flowers  all 
over  the  thicket,  the  slim  redbud  is  all 
purple-pink,  the  iron-wood's  long  tassels 
fairly  drip  gold-dust,  while  a  hundred  yards 
away  the  same  growths  show  only  faintly 
swelled  buds.  On  the  mill-stream,  a  mile 
away,  where  the  spring  water  again  comes 
to  light,  the  difference  is  even  more  marked. 
In  the  broad,  deep  valley  the  young  oak 
leaves  are  as  big  as  rabbits'  ears.  Truly 


56 

those  are  living  waters  that  roll  so  clear  at 
the  roots.  And  what  a  sweet,  subtle  fra- 
grance loads  all  the  air !  It  comes  only  in 
earliest  spring.  There  is  the  source  of  it, 
that  smooth,  gray-barked,  shrubby  tree,  with 
trunk  made  up  of  curiously  interlaced  stems. 
It  is  entirely  leafless,  yet  enveloped  in  a 
cloud  of  clustered  white  fringy  blossoms. 
See  how  it  bends  over  the  water,  dipping  a 
long  branch  in  the  foamy  eddy  at  its  root. 
Does  it  not  seem  a  forest  Narcissus  pining 
for  its  own  lovely  image  ?  Even  to  the  ti- 
niest twig  it  is  loaded  with  blossoms,  but 
nothing  comes  of  them.  Nobody  has  ever 
yet  found  a  seed,  and  there  are  but  three 
trees  in  a  county,  the  woodsmen  all  declare. 
Perhaps  that  is  why  it  has  not  even  a  nick- 
name. When  the  leaves  come  out,  three 
weeks  after  the  blossoms,  any  but  a  woods- 
man would  swear  to  the  tree  as  a  scrub 
hickory.  The  bark  is  as  tough  and  stringy, 
the  foliage  of  quite  the  same  color,  shape, 
and  texture. 

For  an  early  bow-pot,  though,  there  is 
nothing  like  branches  of  its  white  flowers 
crowded  against  the  yellow  scarlet  of 
swamp-maple  blossoms.  Put  them  in  a  big 
earthen  jar ;  no  vase  has  room  enough.  Set 
it  in  your  darkest  corner,  upon  a  carpet 


57__ 

of  moss.  Put  ferns  all  around  the  base, 
and,  if  possible,  get  long  sprays  of  cross 
vine  to  trail  over  the  jar's  edge,  or  to  climb 
the  wall  back  of  it.  Its  green,  stiff,  waxy 
leaves,  mottled  with  red  and  brown,  give  a 
needed  shadow  to  the  vivid  flowers,  and 
make  up  a  true  vernal  harmony.  Unless 
you  can  make  some  such  use  of  them,  leave 
the  maple  flowers  to  glorify  their  native 
swamp.  Convention  spoils  them  utterly. 
A  vase  suits  them  about  as  well  as  a  dress- 
coat  would  a  Seminole  or  Cherokee  chief. 

Let  alone  always  the  sick-sweet  redbud. 
It  is  well  named  Judas-tree.  Not  only  does 
it  stupefy  the  foolish  early  bees,  but  its  sap 
makes  the  hand  that  plucks  it  itch  and 
burn,  and  is  almost  as  irritant  as  the  cling- 
ing poison-oak. 

A  little  later,  when  dogwoods  flower,  you 
may  come  home  with  sheaves  of  bloom. 
Then  it  is  throughout  the  South  and  West 
"  corn-planting  time,"  and  homely  folk  say 
that  the  blossoming  is  an  infallible  "  sign  " 
for  the  harvest.  If  the  flowers  are  few, 
corn  will  be  "  all  nubbins,  and  few  at  that  "; 
if  the  woods  are  white,  cribs  and  barns  will 
overflow. 

As  a  cut  flower  the  dogwood  has  but  one 
proper  place  — namely,  the  fireplace.  Stuck 


58 

in  a  box  of  wet  sand  overlaid  with  moss, 
the  flat,  white-starred  branches  make  an 
ideal  screen.  Otherwhere  it  drops  so  quick- 
ly or  is  so  stiffly  ungraceful  that  it  will  prove 
only  a  vanity  and  vexation  of  spirit.  That 
is,  in  its  first  estate.  In  October  few  things 
are  more  decorative  than  dogwood  branches 
set  thick  with  leaves  and  fairly  aglow  with 
clustered  coral-red  berries.  Even  after  the 
leaves  fall  they  are  especially  handsome, 
particularly  when  tacked  flat  against  a  plain 
gray  or  dull-blue  wall.  Both  sugar  and  rock 
maples  blossom  before  they  leaf,  and  at  the 
merest  hint  of  spring.  If  the  "  sugar-tree  " 
has  been  tapped  it  is  two  to  four  weeks  late 
in  blossoming.  Otherwise  its  thick  clusters 
of  greenish-yellow  fringe  come  out  first  of 
all.  Oftener  than  not  they  are  pelted  with 
snow  or  wrapped  in  sleet  before  their  course 
is  run. 

Nut-trees  are  wiser.  It  is  high  May,  full 
and  splendid,  before  walnut  and  hickory 
fling  out  their  plumes  of  green,  and  fill  the 

forest  with  a 

"  Cool,  wild,  bitter  scent, 
Better  than  taint  of  rose  or  balm  breath  rare." 

It  is  strong,  clean,  uplifting.  The  breath 
of  it  clears  the  mind  and  strengthens  the 
soul.  If  a  trumpet  call  could  be  made 


59 

odorous  it  would  smell  as  do  these  blos- 
soms. There  is  nothing  in  life  so  delight- 
ful as  to  lie  prone  upon  warm  grass  under 
a  big,  spreading  walnut,  standing  alone  in 
acres  of  pasture-land,  with  May  sun  drip- 
ping gold  through  the  quivering  leaves, 
with  cattle  lowing  all  about,  with  birds 
nesting  in  the  near  thicket,  and  the  scent 
of  crushed  catkins  coining  strong  and  sweet 
from  your  hands. 

The  crab-apple  is  Dame  Nature's  para- 
dox ;  one  of  those  contradictions  wherewith 
she  delights  slyly  to  confound  us.  For  is 
not  the  blossom  as  sweet  as  the  fruit  is 
sour  ?  Is  not  the  grace  of  branch  and  leaf 
offset  by  the  prickliness  of  long  thorns? 
Far  beyond  the  hawthorn  it  is  the  true 
flower  of  May.  It  is  as  though  creative 
power  had  gathered  the  dawn  and  the  dew, 
the  grace  of  rippling  water,  the  sweetness 
of  true  love,  and  of  them  shaped  these 
dainty,  pink-flushed  flowerets,  then  set  and 
fenced  them  about  with  a 'hedge  of  thorns. 
Though  we  have  hawthorn  and  haws,  black 
and  red  galore,  they  cannot  be  named  in 
the  same  day  with  the  crab-apple.  Indeed, 
there  is  but  one  blossom -tree  that  can  — 
that  immortelle,  the  honey- locust.  The 
man,  the  woman,  who  knows  not,  loves  not, 


6o 


its  pendulous  white  clusters  and  rich,  sweet 
breath,  is  fit  for  treasons,  stratagems,  and 
spoils  of  the  deepest  dye.  Few,  even  of  its 
lovers,  though,  know  what  a  hold  it  has  on 
life.  Stick  down  a  twig,  a  bit  of  root,  any- 
where, and  behold,  you  have  a  tree,  no 
matter  what  the  environment.  A  Virginia 
planter  once  enclosed  his  calf  lot  with  lo- 
cust posts  mortised  through  and  through, 
and  locust  poles  fitted  into  the  openings. 
By  summer  posts  and  rails  were  growing  at 
a  lively  rate,  and  had  made  a  hedge  where 
only  a  fence  was  wanted.  Another,  whose 
door-yard  was  set  with  locusts,  dug  a  well 
sixty  feet  deep,  and  got  a  bit  of  locust  root 
out  in  the  last  spadeful  of  earth.  Upon  still 
another  plantation,  roots  of  the  locust  plant- 
ed by  the  pioneer  owner  two  hundred  years 
ago  come  up  regularly  each  spring,  in  spite 
of  a  century  of  persistent  grubbing. 

Park  and  street  planting  have  quite  vul- 
garized the  buckeye.  It  keeps  no  bit  of 
true  sylvan  flavor,  but  grows  by  time  and 
rule,  and  blossoms  to  order.  The  magnolia, 
too,  is  commonplace  away  from  its  native 
woodland.  The  tulip-tree  defies  ornamental 
planting.  It  will  grow  strong  and  stately 
in  the  bottom,  or  cling  stoutly  to  life  upon 
the  bare  hill-sides,  but  does  not  take  kindly 


6i 


to  the  haunts  of  men.  It  loves  light  soil 
and  untrampled  roots.  Given  those,  it  is 
magnificent.  Without  them  it  sickens  and 
dies.  None  can  know  what  a  wealth  of 
blossom  truly  means  who  has  not  stood  in 
the  wreathy  top  of  a  tulip-tree,  looking  down 
at  the  earth  through  twenty  feet  of  flowers, 
and  up  to  the  sky  through  forty  feet  more. 
Late  May  is  the  season.  The  leaves  are 
almost  full-grown,  the  new  twigs  six  inches 
long,  and  each  one  bending  with  the  green 
and  yellow  cups. 

Linden  and  bass  wood,  persimmon  and 
pawpaw,  chestnut,  willow,  each  in  due  sea- 
son furnishes  sweets  for  the  bee,  scent 
for  the  breeze.  Ash,  sycamore,  oaks,  have 
blossoms,  green  and  graceful,  but  lacking 
sweetness. 


GREEN  FIELDS 

iHEY  are  civilization's  hall- 
mark, and  make  you  more  in 
love  with  Mother  Earth  than 
even  the  wooing  stateliness  of 
woodland.  Especially  in  May 
—the  "  merrie  month  of  May  " — when  winds 
are  all  of  balm,  and  the  golden  sunlight 
drips  down  through  tender  new  leaves.  The 
world  is  vocal  then.  All  the  birds  sing 
love.  Each  little  runnel  tinkles  a  fairy 
chime.  Sound  of  all  sorts  takes  on  a 
curious  vital  resonance,  and  nowhere  more 
than  in  the  green  fields,  the  breadths  of 
grain  and  grass.  There  is  a  story  in  each 
wind  that  blows  through  their  green,  small 
spears.  If  you  do  but  have  the  fine  ear  to 
hear,  you  shall  learn  wondrous  things.  As 
truly  as  all  flesh  is  grass,  there  is  a  marvel- 
lous individuality  in  the  things  which  sup- 
ply the  staff  of  life.  Rye,  for  example,  is 
the  grain  of  paradox.  Plunge  into  this 
field  of  it,  a  breast-high  sea  of  gray-green, 


still  damp  with  dew,  though  it  is  ten  o'  the 
clock.  No  wonder  the  ballad  heroine 

"  Draiglet  a'  her  petticoatie 
Coming  thro'  the  rye." 

The  stay  and  solace  of  high  latitudes,  it 
holds  moisture  in  a  fashion  that  is  simply 
amazing.  This  it  is  which  enables  it  to 
grow  rank  and  tall  upon  soil  where  less 
hardy  grain  would  attain  but  a  few  starve- 
ling inches.  Indeed  it  is,  in  some  sort,  the 
savage  among  cereals.  There  is  more  than 
a  suggestion  of  spear  and  arrow  in  blade 
and  beard  and  long,  lithe  straw.  Withal,  it 
is  graceful  beyond  words.  Now  the  heads, 
just  bursting  out  of  sheath,  are  level  with  a 
tall  man's  shoulders.  By  harvest  they  will 
bend  and  droop  above  his  head.  To  walk 
through  it  then  will  be  a  plunge  into  green 
gloom,  with  the  stalks,  crushed  by  the  tread, 
writhing  serpentwise  at  foot.  Light  winds 
barely  ripple  the  heavy  heads.  When  it 
comes  out  of  the  west,  a  lion  of  the  air, 
there  are  billows  and  heavings  almost  to 
match  a  stormy  sea.  For  minutes  the  whole 
breadth  of  it  will  be  flattened  as  with  a  heavy 
roller.  As  the  gust  upcurls,  the  tough  stalks 
writhe  upward  too,  and  dance  in  the  teeth  of 
lesser  gales ;  that  is,  if  the  seed  fell  among 
stones  or  a  holding  clay. 


Rich  soil  is  fatal  to  this  democrat  of  grains. 
It  grows  there,  to  be  sure,  in  a  weak,  perfunc- 
tory fashion,  but  a  moderate  rain  will  lodge 
it  hopelessly,  and  the  grain  itself  is  spongy 
and  without  substance.  At  the  best  it  is  not 
a  tempting  food-stuff.  Rye-bread  is  bread 
of  bitterness  unless  marvellously  well  dis- 
guised. Yet  it  keeps  many  millions  from 
hunger — millions,  too,  who  without  it  would 
inevitably  suffer  famine.  Under  favorable 
conditions  a  single  seed  may  reproduce  it- 
self two-thousandfold.  In  addition,  it  thrives 
in  weather  conditions  that  forbid  the  ripen- 
ing of  other  grain.  On  the  whole,  this  beard- 
ed grain  deserves  more  than  well  of  a  large 
moiety  of  humanity. 

So,  too,  do  oats,  which  Dr.  Johnson  de- 
fined as  "  a  grain  that  in  England  is  fed  to 
horses ;  in  Scotland,  to  men."  The  sneer 
was  well  parried  by  the  indignant  Scot's  que- 
ry, "  An'  whae  will  ye  find  sic  horses  and  sic 
men  ?"  Nowadays,  though,  the  land  of  cakes 
and  heather  is  not  singular  in  its  consump- 
tion of  "  the  canny  aitmeal."  It  has  pretty 
well  all  the  world's  breakfast-table  for  its 
own.  But  there  clings  always  to  the  grow- 
ing plant  more  than  a  suggestion  of  moor 
and  mist.  Mark  the  cool  blue-green  of  these 
blades  tossing  well  up  beside  your  knee. 


65 

The  field  is  just  "in  the  boot."  A  little 
space,  and  you  shall  see  all  over  it  the  plu- 
my, pale,  pendulous  pyramids  of  slender, 
thickly-husked  grain.  Even  more  than  rye, 
it  needs  coolness  and  moisture.  A  week  of 
drought  as  it  is  heading,  and  the  yield  will 
not  pay  for  harvesting.  Ripe,  it  is  the  tru- 
est gold  of  the  fields.  All  other  straw  and 
stubble  are  pale  and  commonplace  in  con- 
trast to  its  glowing  yellow.  A  curious  fact 
about  the  grain  is  its  deterioration  in  new 
climatic  conditions.  The  best  Scotch  oats 
imported  weigh  nearly  fifty  pounds  to  the 
bushel.  The  American  product  from  such 
seed  sinks  in  two  years  to  about  thirty-two. 
Now  the  wheat-field  spreads  you  out  its 
hundred  emerald  acres.  Here  is  no  hint  of 
blue  or  gray,  but  that  intense  verdure  that 
best  symbolizes  the  time  of  growth  and 
blowth.  The  grain  is  just  fairly  headed — 
waist-high,  and  all  atoss  in  the  mid -day 
breeze.  When  the  sun  rose,  each  green  ear 
bent  daintily  earthward,  dew-diamonded  at 
every  point.  Now  they  stand  straight,  and 
feel  ponderable  as  they  brush  the  passing 
hand.  Note  the  pale,  infinitesimal  flower- 
ets at  tip  of  each  bract.  The  whole  field  is 
in  bloom.  Pouring  rain  to-day  would  scant 
the  harvest  by  half.  For  upon  these  small 

5 


66 


flowers,  no  bigger  than  a  pin's  head,  and 
hung  on  a  stalk  you  can  scarce  see  with 
the  naked  eye,  depends  fructification.  Let 
them  be  rudely  removed,  and  there  will  be 
only  chaff  and  emptiness,  howsoever  fair  the 
head.  The  danger  will  pass  quickly.  Next 
week  the  kernel  will  be  in  the  milk,  with 
only  rust  to  assail  it.  That  may  come  if 
there  are  hot  days  and  still  nights,  with  warm 
showers  between.  In  a  night,  as  it  were, 
the  red  fungus  forms  on  blade  and  stalk, 
and  sucks  up  the  wholesome  juices  that 
should  go  to  feed  the  head.  Then  farewell 
the  hope  of  "  buckshot  "  grain.  There  may 
be  quantity,  but  quality  will  surely  be  lack- 
ing. It  is  pitiful  to  see  failure  overtake 
what  promised  so  fairly. 

More  than  pitiful  if  it  comes  in  shape  of 
the  army -worm.  His  visitation  is  infre- 
quent— once  in  twenty  years  or  so.  When 
he  does  come  no  green  thing  escapes.  He 
devastates  impartially  garden  hedge -row, 
corn-field,  and  thicket;  wheat  and  grass 
land,  though,  are  his  favorite  forage.  He 
comes  without  warning,  attacks  in  solid 
phalanx,  and  moves  through  the  field  in 
writhing  mass.  If  the  wheat  is  not  head- 
ed, it  never  will  be.  The  field  is  eaten 
bare.  If  the  straw  has  strength  to  turn  his 


67 


teeth,  he  strips  it  of  all  leaves,  even  to  the 
uppermost,  and  drops  down  to  find  another 
stalk.  Once  in  a  field,  there  is  no  cure  for 
him.  A  deep  trench,  into  which  he  may 
fall,  is  the  only  prevention  of  him.  Twice 
a  day  it  must  be  cleaned  out,  or  the  bodies 
of  the  fallen  invaders  would  make  a  bridge 
for  the  enemy  behind.  He  is  a  dull  gray- 
ish-brown fellow,  stupid  and  harmless  to 
look  at,  yet  Goth  nor  Vandal  ever  left  be- 
hind him  a  more  desolate  world  than  he. 

We  will  barely  skirt  the  meadow  where 
clover  and  the  grasses  spread  out  their  ten- 
der mosaic.  Tangled  grass  is  the  mower's 
abomination,  and  footsteps  must  mat  and 
tangle  the  lush  greenery  that  lies  knee-deep 
all  over  it.  At  the  branch  we  will  pause  and 
drink  long  draughts  of  its  blossomy  breath, 
as  well  as  mark  the  pink  marsh-mallows 
fringing  the  water's  edge,  or  pluck  a  cluster 
of  the  wild  hydrangea.  It  is  curious  how 
the  shrub  clings  to  its  native  spot,  maybe  a 
hundred  years  after  the  sheltering  woodland 
has  been  cut  away.  As  we  make  choice 
from  its  wealth  of  bloom,  a  soft  wind  stirs, 
and  the  whole  world  sings.  "Rejoice,"  it 
says— "rejoice  and  be  glad,  O  mortal !  that 
God  gives  life,  and  lends  sunshine  and  green 
fields  to  sweeten  it." 


A  MOON  O'  MAY 


jOULD  you  know  all  the  glory, 
the  glamour,  of  it  ?  Then  watch 
with  me  the  rising,  the  going 
down,  thereof.  It  is  a  full 
moon,  big  and  round,  dripping 
silver  in  long  bars  over  this  vernal  earth. 
How  dark  the  horizon  lies— the  deep,  in- 
tense black  of  lush  new  leafage,  soft  and 
dense — so  dense,  indeed,  it  drinks  up  the 
soft  gray  twilight.  Sunset  is  two  hours 
past.  All  over  the  sky  a  tremulous  lumi- 
nance makes  paler  the  radiant  stars.  The 
glory  of  the  sun,  the  glory  of  the  moon, 
reach  up  from  west  and  east  to  flood  the 
sweet  heavens  with  this  dusk,  tender  shining. 
The  heavens  that  bend  so  near.  If  you 
could  but  reach  the  tallest  tree-top,  surely 
the  hand  might  pluck  these  fine  stars  from 
their  courses  —  bend  them  to  human  pur- 
pose, to  human  will.  Underneath  them, 
what  balm  breathes  out — smell  of  the  earth, 
and  grass  and  flowers  underlaid  with  the 


6Q 

cool  dew -scent.  How  white  the  jasmine's 
stars  gleam  through  the  dusk ;  how  ghostly- 
fair  the  tall,  gold-dusted  lilies.  The  south 
wind  hath  sighed  him  to  sleep,  drugged  with 
their  heavy  sweet.  Surely  Circe  herself 
wrought  never  enchantment  so  potent.  All 
the  night  through  he  will  sleep — nor  dream, 
nor  stir. 

Now  the  east  brightens — glows  to  flame. 
Up  and  up  a  slow  moon  swims,  a  blush  upon 
her,  cleaving  with  silver  lances  the  thick, 
low,  earthy  air.  What  glimmering  tall  shad- 
ow streams  out  over  the  fields,  vague,  gro- 
tesque— a  very  Harlequin  of  shades,  patched 
here  or  there  or  yonder  with  flares  of  pale 
new  light.  So  pale,  indeed,  you  can  but 
barely  trace  it  across  the  dew-dim  grass. 

Swiftly,  swiftly  it  brightens.  The  shad- 
ows deepen,  shorten,  grow  sharp  of  outline. 
See  how  the  young  corn-rows  mark  moon 
dials  all  over  their  smooth  fields.  Eleven 
o'  the  clock  by  it — the  moon  stands  at  quar- 
ter—  stars  are  faint  and  pale.  What  light- 
flood  pours  through  the  clear  valley,  turn- 
ing all  to  silver  the  tall,  unrippled  grass. 
Wheatland  lies  dark  to  blackness.  Its  still, 
deep,  heavy-headed  verdure  is  too  robust  to 
borrow  the  moonshine  tint.  Elder-flowers 
show  spectral  in  the  hedge-rows.  Hedge- 


roses  pale  to  the  ghost  of  their  morning 
hue.  Old-man's-beard  wears  the  silver  of 
age,  and  vagrant,  blossomy  briers  wave  at 
you  wands  of  pearl. 

Hearken  the  deep  night's  voices.  The 
swamp  sends  out  a  rumble  of  distant  croak- 
ing, the  wood  a  shrilling  of  tree-toads  from 
all  its  thousand  boughs.  There  is  crying  of 
whippoorwills  on  every  hand — swish  of  their 
wings,  too,  dark  and  heavy,  as  in  wheeling 
flight  they  circle  from  out  the  wood.  "Whip- 
poor-will!  Whip-poor-will!"  the  cry  of  them, 
goes  pealing  through  this  dim,  drowsing 
world.  There  is  heart-break  in  it,  longing, 
passion,  a  wild  call  for  justice,  a  fine  note 
of  despair.  It  chills  you,  thrills  you,  spite 
the  toad's  merry  undertone,  the  frog's  deep 
double-bass.  It  is  a  singing  of  death  and 
silence.  What  though  the  singer  be  a  clown 
on  wings,  who  shall  listen  without  tremor 
of  soul,  here  in  the  midnight  fields,  his 
weird,  low,  wailing  note  ? 

The  climbing  moon  lies  white,  straight 
overhead.  There  is  no  more  darkness  save 
underneath  the  trees.  What  tense,  black 
silhouettes  of  all  their  leafy  mass  lie,  sharp 
and  vivid,  along  the  wet,  cool  grass.  Mid- 
night has  struck,  and  still  the  south  wind 
sleeps.  And  still  the  lulling  flower-breath 


drifts,  drifts  to  the  dreamers  of  earth — and 
straight  they  cry  out  for  a  joy  that  is  half 
pain.  Heart  of  the  spring-time,  soul  of  the 
summer,  is  in  it.  What  wonder  if  they  who 
breathe  it  go  momently  to  that  undiscov- 
ered land,  where  the  days  of  our  years  are 
made  young. 

One  o'  the  clock.  The  moon  is  "wester- 
ing sharply.  Croaking,  shrilling,  have  died 
away — the  whippoorwill  calls  but  afar  and 
faint.  This  might  be  the  enchanted  island 
with  the  princess  asleep  for  a  hundred  years, 
so  still,  so  stirless,  it  lies  all  in  the  fair, 
white  night.  A  ghost  might  sure  walk  un- 
challenged. But  no,  a  cock  crows  cheerly. 
If  spirits  there  be  abroad,  they  must  troop 
them  home  to  the  grave.  Is  that  truly  a 
ghost  drifting  up  from  the  eastward  swale  ? 
A  white,  thin,  vaporous  swirl ;  what  well- 
bred  shade  could  ask  a  properer  housing? 
Now  another  upcurls — yet  another.  Dawn 
will  find  good  store  of  mist  lying  low  upon 
the  tree-tops  to  redden  at  his  kiss. 

A  sound  wakes  in  the  trees — the  mad- 
dest, merriest,  most  trancing  note.  The 
mocking-bird  is  singing  to  his  new  mate — 
the  fulness  of  life  and  love — the  joy  of  nest- 
ing-time. A  little  while,  and  he  shall  make 
all  the  night  vocal  —  flood  it  with  melody 


from  dusk  to  dawn.  A  bird  in  the  wood's 
edge  echoes  his  fine,  clear  note.  Soon  a 
dozen  will  be  singing — nor  pause  till  the 
sun  arise. 

Listen,  open-hearted,  to  their  fair  accord. 
What  king  can  command  sucli  fine  harmony 
as  wells  through  these  silent  trees  ?  The 
tricksy  singers  pour  out  for  you  every  sweet 
note  of  wood  or  field.  Surely  the  nightin- 
gale must  hide  her  head  before  them,  the 
upward-soaring  lark  sink  down  from  heaven 
to  listen  amazed  to  this  richer  rendering  of 
his  love-note  to  the  sun. 

Now  the  singers  call  with  the  note  of 
doves.  Now  it  is  the  oriole's  song  that 
goes  ringing  through  moon  and  dew.  Now 
a  strain,  clear  as  the  swell  of  Elfland  trum- 
pets— breaking,  dropping,  a  rain  of  silver 
notes  like  small,  sweet  bells  jangled  in  time 
and  tune.  Lay  it  carefully  away  in  memory 
— it  is  the  mocking-bird's  own  song.  That 
he  borrows  other  notes  is  pure  wantonness 
— as  of  him  who  having  giant's  strength  must 
use  it  like  a  giant. 

The  May  moon  rides  at  quarter.  Three 
o'  the  clock — and  all  about  cocks  crowing 
loud  and  clear.  The  western  heaven  is  all 
one  wide,  blue  splendor.  Low  in  the  dark- 
ened east  the  world's  rim  faintly  lightens. 


73 

Here  has  been  no  night — only  a  clear,  white 
shining.  Yet  the  new  day  shall  rise  in 
power,  and  fling  lavish  golden  largess  down 
on  the  teeming  earth;  shall  give  and  take 
away — for  sunlight  and  waking  breeze,  the 
dew,  the  stillness,  the  clinging  breath  of 
flowers.  Even  now  a  faint  air  stirs.  A 
pink  east  blushes  to  scorn  a  paling  west. 
All  the  sweet  birds  wake  to  singing.  The 
east  glows  bright  and  brighter.  The  great 
sun  leaps  to  view,  and  clasps  and  shelters 
in  his  arms  of  light  the  laggard  moon  o' 
May. 


IN  A  RIOTOUS  GARDEN 


)T  belongs  to  my  neighbors,  the 
wise  women.  There  are  two 
of  them — each  tall  and  gaunt, 
with  more  than  a  suspicion  of 
gray  beard  on  her  chin.  One 
looks  at  you  through  keen  blue  eyes,  from 
out  a  face  all  tanned  and  wrinkled.  The 
other  is  flat-nosed,  thick-lipped,  with  shiny 
black  skin,  running  smooth  as  satin  up  to 
her  crown  of  white  wool.  Nominally,  they 
are  mistress  and  maid.  Really,  they  are 
friends,  comrades — occasionally  enemies. 

This,  the  garden,  is  their  pride.  To  keep 
and  to  dress  it,  at  once  a  duty  and  a  joy. 
It  lies  faintly  aslope,  to  southward  of  the 
square  log -house  that  has  trumpet -vine 
climbing  either  big  rock  chimney,  to  wave 
scarlet  arms  in  every  wind  that  blows.  A 
hop-vine  clambers  one  side  the  rough  porch. 
Wild  purple  wistaria  runs  rampant  over  the 
rough  hood  shading  the  back  door.  You 
go  out  from  it  to  a  narrow  path,  beaten 


75 

smooth  and  hard  through  the  short,  velvety 
grass. 

The  garden  lies  four-square  inside  tall, 
ragged  palings.  Once,  mayhap  —  a  long, 
long  time  ago — it  had  some  semblance  of 
walk  and  border — some  due  arrangement  of 
its  garnered  wealth.  A  trellised  arbor  goes 
straight  away  from  the  sagging  gate  to  a 
curious  green  wall  at  the  other  end.  Grnpe- 
vines  sprawl  over  the  rough  frame  work — 
not  clipped  and  pruned  to  the  vineyard's 
niggard  length,  but  wreathen,  riotous,  creep- 
ing, climbing  along  roof  and  wall,  hanging 
there  in  their  season  long  trails  of  leaf  and 
blossom  and  clustered  sweet  fruit. 

How  fair  it  shows  in  the  sun — all  pinky- 
brown,  all  blackly-purple,  all  as  green  and 
clear  as  a  mermaid's  eyes  —  hanging  so 
thick  under  the  roof  of  leaves.  The  wise 
women  are  generous  in  their  season.  Not 
only  may  you  eat  your  fill,  but  pluck  gen- 
erous handfuls  to  carry  away.  Presently 
you  see  that  they  can  well  afford  to  be. 
Coming  out  on  the  green  wall  it  turns  all 
to  tossing  spears — a  poor,  small  cane-brake, 
kept*  partly  for  use,  partly  for  sentiment. 
The  wise  woman  remembers  her  childhood, 
when  cane  covered  the  land.  Between  times 
of  gathering  simples  and  going  abroad  to 


76 

heal,  she  sits  weaving  at  her  loom — so  needs 
store  of  reeds  for  quills.  Here  at  their 
foot  she  stuck  slips  of  all  vines.  They  have 
rooted,  thriven  lustily,  and  hang  fair,  rich 
clusters  all  over  and  through  the  green,  sigh- 
ing wall. 

Part  it  lightly  and  step  within ,  let  the  lithe, 
stiff  stems  close  all  upon  you — a  fairy  prison 
shutting  you  quite  away  from  the  guide  who 
stands  outside  scarce  two  yards  away. 

Peaches,  too,  the  garden  boasts — scatter- 
ed trees  of  the  Indian  sort,  sweet  and  fla- 
vorous  as  love,  bloodily  red  as  murder.  Yet 
to  see  it  but  in  season  of  fruit  is  to  lose,  far 
and  away,  its  best  charm.  Come,  tread  with 
me  its  round  under  fair  spring  skies,  when 
peaches  have  dropped  flower,  grapes  hang 
i'  the  bud.  Look  up  as  you  pass  the  gate. 
Either  hand  a  big  mock-orange  leans  to  kiss 
its  mate,  arching  overhead  a  bower  of  thick 
white  bloom.  What  curious,  shrubby  vine 
climbs  over  it,  dropping  on  every  hand  its 
fine,  long  arms,  so  lightly  graceful,  so  thick- 
sown  all  their  length  with  tiny  leaf  and 
blossom  ?  "  Youth  -  and  -  age  willow,"  black 
Daphne  tells  you,  nodding  sagely  as'  she 
shows  you  that  never  a  fresh  purple  flower 
comes  out  but  a  faded  one  peers  sorrow- 
fully from  the  same  foot-stalk. 


77 

Truly,  this  garden  needs  a  guide-book — it 
is  so  delightfully  unmethodical,  so  full  of 
curious  things.  Black  Daphne  knows  it  by 
heart.  For  the  most  part  it  is  of  her  plant- 
ing. That  is  why  you  see  white  lilac  plumes 
atoss  quite  in  middle  of  a  clear,  sunlit  space. 
She  loves  the  flower,  and  had  no  mind  that 
it  should  be  dwarfed  or  starved  by  rougher, 
more  robust  growths.  Purple  lilac ;  pinky, 
flowering  almond,  as  daintily  artificial  as  a 
Dresden-China  shepherdess;  stubbly  scar- 
let pomegranate ;  big,  overgrown,  conceited 
snowball — she  has  massed  all  together  at 
one  side,  to  struggle  as  they  will  for  existence. 

She  is  tender  of  sweet-scented  things. 
Calycanthus  stands  full  and  fair  in  the 
onion  beds'  middle.  Honeysuckles — red, 
pink,  yellow,  white  —  wave,  garland  -  wise, 
each  in  its  separate  place,  afar  from  other 
root.  So,  too,  do  the  roses  —  all  June's 
hardy  myriad.  Now  they  are  but  tangles 
of  green,  small  buds,  with  no  hint  of  color 
save  the  Scotch  rose,  whose  gold  peeps 
warily  even  thus  early  through  its  green 
sheath.  A  little  while,  and  you  shall  see  it 
yellow  as  the  sunshine's  self,  with  sweet, 
short  -  stemmed  flowers.  And  still  a  little 
later  the  winds  shall  rock,  the  bee  drowse 
through.  Hundred -leaf  velvet,  thornless 


78 

bouquet — how  many  more? — lavish  stems 
all,  that  crowd  into  one  brief  month  more  of 
bloom  than  their  sisters  of  newer  fashion 
dole  out  through  all  the  year. 

Black  Daphne  loves  them  well.  Pro- 
priety forbids  that  they  nod  from  her  tur- 
baned  head,  but  all  their  days  of  blossom 
she  goes  with  her  breast  crowded  full  of 
stemless  flowers.  She  saves,  too,  the  drop- 
ping petals  to  dry  and  strew  through  her 
chest,  her  drawers.  All  her  clean  garments 
smell  of  them,  and  bring  to  her  a  breath  of 
summer,  even  when  snow  lies  deep. 

Not  so  her  mistress.  She  grants  the 
flower  sightly,  but  cannot  forgive  its  thorns. 
In  the  garden's  farthest  edge  her  one  child 
lies  buried.  The  grave  is  rarely  beflowered, 
but  only  with  soft,  smooth  stems.  The 
mound  is  a  swell  of  green-glossed  box-vine, 
with  lily-of-the-valley  aring  at  the  edge.  Be- 
yond that  come  tulips,  hyacinths  in  orderly 
row,  with  borders,  one  half  of  violet  tufts, 
white  and  blue,  one  half  of  pale,  fringy, 
clove-scented  pinks.  They  grow  and  blow 
here  in  this  rich,  light  earth,  unplucked, 
tended  always  by  mother  hands.  Who 
shall  say  that  the  love,  the  hope,  the  pride- 
ful  ambition,  closed  within  that  little  coffin, 
do  not  live  again  in  the  flowers  ? 


79 

Daphne  has  only  flower-children.  If  she 
loves  passing  well  her  shrubs  and  vines, 
lowlier  blossoms  are  her  passion.  And 
surely  she  was  born  for  anarchy.  Do  but 
look  at  this  breadth  of  dark  earth,  so  light 
and  crumbly  to  the  tread.  Again  it  is  high 
summer.  Things  for  use  —  beans,  beets, 
potatoes,  squash,  cucumbers  —  straggling, 
crowding  over  the  face  of  it,  their  matted 
green  everywhere  beflecked  with  big,  fringy 
poppies,  royal  red,  cream -white,  or  vivid 
pink.  In  between,  bluets  peer  pertly,  prince- 
feather  uplifts  its  stately  stalk,  gay  snap- 
dragon flings  wide  its  painted  throat.  At 
one  edge  bachelor's-button  fights  hard  with 
vigorous  pepper -plants.  A  huge,  branchy 
sun -flower  stands  tall  above  the  battle. 
Over  against,  palma-christi  spreads  its  feath- 
ery fans  higher  than  your  head,  its  red  stalk 
overrun  with  green  cypress-vine. 

All  sprang  where  they  stand — from  self- 
sown  seed.  Daphne  could  no  more  uproot 
them  than  she  could  do  murder.  Spade, 
hoe,  and  rake  have  turned  aside  from  them, 
or  wrought  only  that  they  might  be  free  of 
hindering  weeds.  See,  too,  these  clumps 
of  heart's-ease,  so  velvet-dark  and  golden- 
eyed,  standing  in  shade  of  green  asparagus 
plumes.  The  big,  silvery  onions  swell  up 


So 


through  a  tangle  of  bright  portulaca;  cab- 
bages sit  cheek -by- jowl  with  phlox;  tall, 
full-podded  pea-vines  make  room  on  their 
bush  for  their  kindred,  the  sweet-pea. 

No  foot  of  earth  is  bare.  Here  be  green 
stems  of  broom,  dreaming  through  a  leaf- 
less summer  of  its  February  flowering.  Co- 
chorus,  too,  all  anocl  with  ragged  yellow 
balls,  touch-me-nots,  four-o'clocks,  pretty-by- 
nights,  sweet-williams,  cowslip,  purple  flag 
— all  the  pretty,  quaintly -named,  old-fash- 
ioned crew.  Wild  things  beside.  Daphne 
knows  well  the  secrets  of  field  and  wood. 
Thence  she  has  brought  hither  blue-bell  and 
columbine — purple,  red,  and  white — flower- 
de-luce,  scarlet  catch-fly,  yarrow — green  and 
feathery — butterfly-weed,  swamp-honeysuc- 
kle that  learned  folk  call  azalea — Heaven 
knows  what  beside.  Each  after  his  kind, 
she  plants,  tends,  coaxes  into  flower.  Save, 
indeed,  the  coy  yellow  lady-slipper,  who  will 
not  be  comforted  for  her  wood-sprites,  and 
sends  up  her  green  stalk  bare  of  its  yellow 
glory. 

The  strength  of  the  garden  is  its  herbs — 
so  many,  so  various  —  whose  names  were 
never  writ  in  the  wisest  man's  book.  Com- 
monplace savors,  sage,  fennel,  dill,  caraway, 
sweet  basil,  sweet  marjoram,  thyme,  tansy, 


Si 


elecampane,  mint,  bergamot,  "  Texas  sage," 
rue,  catnip,  hoarhound,  bestrew  the  whole 
space,  cluster  thick  at  foot  of  the  paling, 
cling  and  abide  at  root  of  all  the  shrubs,  or 
in  the  line  of  tall  hollyhocks — the  gardens' 
one  trace  of  preciseness.  Good  in  their 
place,  one  and  all — for  comfort,  or  flavor,  or 
healing  of  small  hurts.  Not  from  them, 
though,  does  the  wise  woman  draw  her  store. 
See  this  tall,  weedy  stalk,  thick  beset  with 
purple  blossoms,  with  dull,  dark,  rough, 
green  leaves.  Virtue  untold  inheres  in  it, 
root  and  leaf — what  virtue,  only  the  wise 
woman  can  tell.  Some  part  of  it  cures 
green  wounds,  some  part  fevers,  some  part 
assuages  the  angriest  hurt.  Its  neighbor 
comes,  I  think,  from  the  swamp.  It  has 
brown,  weeping  stems,  thick  sown  with 
feathers  of  gray -green  leaves.  Daphne 
whispers  a  pillow  of  them  is  the  one  sure 
help  for  sleepless  eyes.  Tea  of  these  mat- 
ted green  stems  over  against,  banishes  va- 
pors, warms  the  cockles  of  the  heart.  In- 
deed it  were  too  long  to  tell  of  all  the  wild, 
strange  growths  here  flourishing  side  by 
side.  Gathered  from  all  the  four  sides  of 
wood  and  field,  they  are  plucked  each  in 
its  season,  brewed  with  barks  and  roots 
and  seeds  into  potion  or  philter — healing 
6 


82 


draught  it  may  be,  or  one  that  shall  work 
harm. 

Only  the  wise  woman  knows.  Her  face 
is  a  mask — tawny,  inscrutable.  Good  she 
hath  wrought  beyond  question.  Ill,  too,  it 
may  be— -life  hath  a  curious  woof,  more 
curious  even  than  the  gay  threads  flashing 
out  from  her  darting  shuttles.  The  sun 
sinks  low ;  birds  set  up  a  sleepy  chirp.  She 
drops  batten  and  treadle,  to  go  out  among 
the  flowers.  A  last  look  shows  her  stand- 
ing at  ease,  sun-rays  gilding  her  bare  gray 
head,  with  the  good  green  leaves  behind, 
the  garden  as  a  lush  carpet  unrolled  at  her 
feet. 


SUMMER  RAIN 


>T  has  portents  without  num- 
ber. See  the  sky  of  mottled 
red  that  the  dawn  unrolls  for 
us.  The  earliest  sun-rays  strike 
through  it  —  long,  white,  up- 
ward-streaming lances.  "  The  sun  is  draw- 
ing water,"  country  people  say.  A  little 
later,  when  he  is  an  hour  above  the  hor- 
izon, there  will  likely  be  "  sun  -  dogs  "  as 
well.  Long  before  those  balls  of  vivid 
opalescence  have  gone  before  him  into  the 
cloud's  dun  swathe,  earth  will  have  repeated 
to  you  the  story  of  rain,  not  only  in  dewless 
grass  and  in  low-skimming  flights  of  swal- 
lows. There  is  a  thrilled,  expectant  hush 
in  flower  and  tree.  Poplar  leaves  curl  and 
quiver  till  their  silver  lining  makes  light 
the  leafy  darkness ;  those  of  the  elm  rise 
up  in  thirsty  welcome.  The  oaks,  big  bosses 
of  glossy  green,  droop  generously,  as  though 
saying,  "  Flowers  first."  Dawn  winds  die 
away  to  a  low  undertone  of  sighing.  Wafts 


84 

of  heavy  perfume  come  up  from  the  clover. 
Woods  and  hedge-rows  send  out  the  vanilla 
sweetness  of  grape  blossoms  —  the  scent 
that,  of  all  others,  embodies  the  soul  of 
summer.  Garden  air  is  well-nigh  faint 
with  odor  of  rose  and  lily  and  primrose  and 
honeysuckle.  Only  the  spice  of  clove-pinks 
redeems  it — accents  with  vivid  sweetness 
what  would  else  be  overpowering.  Helio- 
tropes, marigolds,  four-o'clocks,  verbenas, 
phlox,  petunias,  are  true  sun -flowers.  A 
lowering  day  they  fold  up  their  bright  hues, 
and  stand  —  stern,  sad -colored,  patient  — 
awaiting  the  downpour.  There  is  something 
wonderfully  human  about  these  sun-lovers. 
If  fate  sets  them  in  shade,  they  will  grow 
tall  with  all  their  might,  and  creep  and  bend 
and  twist,  with  never  a  sign  of  blossom, 
until  they  reach  the  sun-blaze.  Often  they 
are  so  spent  in  the  reaching  that  the  flower, 
when  it  comes,  is  but  a  poor  ghost  of  blos- 
som, whose  pallor  not  even  the  sun -kiss 
can  flush. 

Roses  love  sunshine  fairly  well.  They 
run  riot  in  the  dashing  of  warm  rain.  Buds 
unfold  as  by  magic ;  blown  flowers  bare 
their  hearts ;  faded  ones  dance  earthward 
in  long  drifts  of  shed  petals.  If  the  rain 
turns  chill,  the  "rose  would  shut  and  be  a 


85 

bud  again,"  only  its  heart  is  so  full  of 
moisture  as  to  have  lost  power  to  close. 

The  presage  of  rain  falls  early  upon  the 
birds.  Before  dawn  they  begin  singing. 
All  the  orchard  rings  with  clear  thrush 
notes;  robins  sing,  loud  and  sweet,  from 
the  hedge-rows,  undervoiced  by  the  wrens' 
reedy  call ;  the  big  oaks  are  vocal  with 
blackbird  chatter ;  the  wild  cherry  at  the 
field's  edge  sends  you  out  the  oriole's  clear 
jangle,  the  wood-pigeon's  coo  ;  the  cries  of 
feeding  partridges  come  faint  and  far  from 
the  bush  pasture  ;  crows  and  woodpeckers, 
screaming  noisily,  dart  like  feathered  can- 
non-balls across  meadow  and  corn-field. 

Before  sunrise  all  are  silent.  The  barn- 
yard din,  too,  has  died  away.  Instead  of 
crowing,  the  cocks  feed  industriously  ;  small 
chicks  peep  in  sleepy  content  from  under 
brooding  wings.  Cattle  graze  quietly,  with 
only  now  and  then  an  upward  glance,  in 
place  of  running  wildly  about,  with  stiff 
tails,  lowered  heads,  and  uplifted  voices,  as 
they  did  when  first  awake. 

Out  in  the  far  pasture  the  colts  are  run- 
ning races.  They  snuff  the  rain  afar  off, 
and  grow  fairly  wild.  See  how  they  rear 
and  plunge  and  prance,  or  run  with  heads 
daintily  aside,  whinnying  faintly  one  to  an- 


86 


other,  or  giving  some  laggard  a  mischiev- 
ous nip  or  kick.  What  fire,  what  grace, 
what  spirit,  in  these  creatures,  "  by  spur  or 
bridle  undefiled,"  and  fine  as  silk  in  their 
glossy  new  coats !  Now  they  have  swung 
into  a  dead  run.  It  is  a  race  where  the 
best  horse  is  sure  to  win.  Round  and  round 
they  go,  the  rhythmic  hoof-beats  falling  on 
the  turf  with  the  sound  of  summer  surf. 
Watch  that  black  fellow  far  outside.  My 
word  for  it,  he  is  winner.  He  was  lengths 
behind  at  the  start,  but  see  how  he  runs, 
with  head  low  to  earth,  as  though  the  great 
leaping  bounds  were  but  play  for  his  mag- 
nificent muscle.  Mark  the  ease  of  his 
stride,  the  lightning  quickness  of  stretch 
and  gather.  In  the  field's  round  he  has 
locked  the  leader ;  now  he  passes  him,  and 
runs  far  ahead.  See  him  stop  short,  fling 
up  his  tapering  muzzle,  and  neigh  defiance 
to  those  so  far  behind !  It  is  time  to  stop. 
Rain  is  moving  in  from  the  woodland — a 
gray,  falling  wall.  Well  may  the  young 
racers  scamper  for  the  big  oak's  shelter. 
They  had  better,  though,  choose  that  wide, 
low-spread  mulberry  a  hundred  yards  away. 
The  air  is  vibrant  with  thunder;  and  look! 
that  blinding  white  glare  means  that  some 
bolt  has  struck  less  than  a  mile  away.  Ah  ! 


87 

there  is  another,  and  another.  See  that 
big  black  oak  at  the  field's  edge,  riven 
into  long  splinters  !  Thunder -clouds  fol- 
low water.  The  oak  stood  just  in  this 
one's  path  to  the  creek.  Boom  !  boom  ! 
boom !  how  the  thunder  rolls  and  crashes ! 
But  fainter,  farther,  every  time. 

The  first  flurry  is  over.  We  shall  have 
no  more  sharp  lightning,  nor  drops  heavy 
as  hail.  The  real  rain,  though,  is  just  be- 
ginning —  a  slow,  steady  fall  that  means 
"greenness  to  the  grass  and  glory  to  the 
flower." 

Not  to-day,  perhaps,  but  to-morrow  and 
for  many  morrows.  It  is  the  "gentle  rain  " 
that  is  the  true  rain  from  heaven,  that 
feeds  the  thirsty  land,  and  at  last  wells  up 
in  springs  of  living  waters.  The  sky  is  a 
dome  of  gray  vapor,  without  fold  or  break. 
We  will  have  an  hour  of  watery  enchant- 
ment. 

Along  the  creek  boys  are  out  with  hook 
and  line.  How  or  why  no  man  can  tell,  but 
fish  bite  their  best  upon  a  gray,  rainy  day. 
That  barefoot  lad,  whose  patched  shirt  is 
soaked  through,  has  one  big  trout  already. 
His  pole  is  a  pawpaw  from  the  near  thicket, 
his  float  an  old  cork,  his  line  a  length  of 
granny's  black  flax  thread,  his  bait  earth- 


88 


worms,  grasshoppers,  and  seventeen -year 
locusts  ;  but,  in  spite  of  all,  he  will  go  home 
with  a  string  of  fish  to  make  a  scientific 
sportsman  die  of  envy.  Ah !  there  is  a 
strike  indeed  !  It  must  be  the  patriarch  of 
the  pool  who  has  risen  to  the  locust  so 
deftly  dropped  just  above  his  favorite  sunk- 
en rock.  See  him  run  up  stream  and  down, 
across,  athwart,  lashing  the  water  into  foam, 
or  leaping  out  of  it  until  half  his  silver  length 
is  visible !  The  boy  will  never  land  him  ? 
Wait  a  bit,  and  see.  He,  too,  is  in  the  water, 
wading  up  to  his  waist,  slipping,  stumbling, 
it  must  be  cutting  his  bare  feet  on  the  sharp 
stones  below,  but  too  intent  on  his  quarry 
to  heed  it.  He  has  no  reel,  but  that  does 
not  matter.  A  bit  of  stick  serves  to  wind 
the  slack  of  the  line,  as  inch  by  inch  he 
gathers  it  from  the  fighting,  struggling  creat- 
ure. If  the  trout  is  game  and  wary,  his 
captor  is  cunning.  Slowly,  cautiously,  he 
heads  for  a  little  land-locked  pool.  The 
trout  darts  into  it,  and  dives  for  a  friendly 
root.  The  fisherman  dives  too,  quite  out  of 
sight,  though  the  water  is  but  three  feet 
deep.  He  comes  up  with  a  gurgling  whoop 
of  triumph,  and  the  big  fish  clasped  to  his 
breast.  Really  he  was  worth  the  wading — 
not  an  ounce  under  two  pounds,  and  with 


half  a  dozen  broken  hooks  embedded  in  the 
big  jaw.  He  looks  like  a  shield  of  silver 
pearl  as  he  lies,  flashing  rainbows,  on  the 
green  growths  of  the  bank.  A  single  bird- 
call sounds  shrill  and  clear.  The  fisherman 
glances  up  apprehensively.  It  is  a  red- 
bird's  note,  and  means  the  end  of  rain  and 
fishing.  It  is  answered  from  every  side. 
First  by  the  mocking-bird,  who  darts  out 
from  his  nesting  thicket  to  perch,  on  some 
high  bough  and  pour  out  a  flood  of  melody. 
Robins  follow,  bluebird,  thrush,  oriole.  A 
low  wind  springs  and  freshens.  The  sky 
rises,  and  hardens  to  gray-white,  with  here 
and  there  a  fragment  of  rain-cloud  under  it, 
from  which  comes  now  and  again  a  fitful 
shower. 

Grassland  is  a  green  lake  two  inches 
deep,  with  red  earthworms  revelling  in  its 
clear  shallows.  Muddy  rivulets  run  along 
the  corn -rows,  their  faint  trickle  drowned 
in  the  rustle  of  tossing  blades.  To-night, 
when  the  world  is  still,  you  can  actually 
hear  the  corn  grow — a  peculiar  faint  up- 
rushing  murmur,  like  nothing  else  under 
heaven.  In  a  warm,  wet  night  corn-stalks 
in  good  ground  will  lengthen  fourteen  to 
sixteen  inches.  What  wonder  that  such 
growth  is  audible. 


QQ 

Now  the  sun  shines,  not  faint  and  watery, 
but  with  true  summer  heat.  The  whole 
world  is  vivified.  Flowers  laugh  out  in  the 
hedge-rows;  leaves  whisper  in  the  soft  air 
overhead.  And  there  is  Master  Red-bird 
taking  his  bath  in  the  tiny  pool  that  has 
gathered  in  a  hoof-mark  beside  the  road. 
Odd  that  such  a  drenching  has  not  given 
him  water  enough.  He  has  plenty  of  com- 
pany. Nearly  every  track  has  an  occupant 
splashing  in  its  tiny  depths  or  preening  his 
feathers  upon  the  brink.  Here  sit  a  pair 
of  ruby-throats —flowers  of  air — aperch  on 
a  dead  twig,  oiling  and  arranging  their  wet 
green  coats.  There  the  oriole  flashes  black 
and  yellow,  with  the  scarlet  tanager  and  in- 
digo-bird calmly  looking  down  from  their 
crab-apple  fastness,  where,  year  after  year, 
they  rear  their  young  undisturbed.  Stolen 
waters  are  sweet.  Perhaps  that  is  why  the 
birds  make  haste  to  use  these  little  pools. 
They  know  somehow  that  they  will  not  en- 
dure. Even  now  they  are  sinking  into  the 
thirsty  land.  The  grass  lies  warm  and  dry 
underfoot.  The  air  is  like  wine.  A  won- 
derful world,  new  and  fresh,  smiles  back  to 
the  sunlight.  "  There  was  rain  to-day." 


IN  THE   OLD   FIELD 


LWAYS,  almost,  the  old  field  has 
a  history.  Sometimes  a  trag- 
edy lies  back  of  it  —  wrecked 
lives,  a  ruined  home.  Oftener, 
a  long  legal  battle,  with  lands 
in  Chancery  idly  awaiting  its  issue. 

Again,  sometimes,  it  is  the  manorial  in- 
stinct of  English  blood,  which,  under  all 
suns,  delights  to  have  and  hold  twice  the 
breadth  of  land  it  can  keep  in  heart  and  tilth. 
Whatever  its  reason  for  being,  always 
it  is  full  of  delicious  vagrants.  The  very 
breezes  blowing  over  are  tricksy  sprites.  It 
lies,  a  clear  hollow  in  the  world  of  belting 
woodland,  with  sunshine  pouring  in,  a  sea 
of  molten  gold. 

Curious  waters  trickle  into  it  from  the 
swamp's  deep -stained  pools,  to  vein  with 
brown  threads  the  lush,  dull  -  green,  low 
places.  All  manner  of  marsh  growths  fol- 
low the  streams :  mallows — pink  and  yel- 
low— blue-flag,  calamus,  reeds,  rushes,  tall, 


92 

coarse  marsh-grass,  now  and  again  a  cat- 
tail, with  million  upon  million  of  yellow 
marsh  marigolds. 

In  the  water's  edge  you  see  the  wax-green 
leaves,  the  white  flowers  of  hart's-tongue. 
Big  clumps  of  dull-pink  everlasting  carpet 
acre  upon  acre  in  faint,  dim  lawn,  that  might 
fitly  drape  a  ghost  of  summer.  Pluck  of  it 
freely,  dry  the  pendulous  clusters  in  a  wind- 
less space,  and  all  winter  long  your  eyes 
shall  rejoice.  All  the  more  if  you  choose, 
too,  bents  of  the  feathery  barrens  -  grass, 
standing  taller  than  your  head.  It  is  the 
feeble  remnant  of  a  great  multitude  once 
covering  as  with  a  garment  the  face  of  this 
earth.  Old  settlers  know  it  well,  and  de- 
light to  tell  you  how,  in  pioneer  times,  a 
man  could  ride  through  it  and  tie  the  heads 
either  hand  across  his  horse's  neck. 

Wild,  woodsy  things  cling  to  the  old  field. 
Hazel-bushes  fight  with  the  mallows  and  mar- 
igolds ;  sassafras  runs  riot,  an  army  with 
banners,  now  green,  now  gold.  Lace-leafed 
sumach  covers  its  autumn  face  with  flame ; 
crab-apple  and  hawthorn  make  spring  alive 
with  the  murmur  of  many  bees ;  scrub-oak 
advances  yearly  in  ever-thickening  ranks, 
with  straight,  slim  young  tulip-trees  and  sil- 
ver sycamores. 


93 

Who  shall  name  or  number  the  tangle  of 
vines  ?  Here  be  wild-grape,  star-flowered 
clematis,  poison -oak,  scarlet  trumpet-vine, 
Virginia  creeper,  bitter-sweet,  cross-vine,  par- 
tridge-berry, beside  half  a  hundred  name- 
less things  instinct  with  graceful  life.  This 
one,  a  mat  of  wreathy  green,  is  a  mark  of 
the  richest  soil.  It  feeds  and  flourishes 
only  on  the  fatness  of  light,  black  mould. 
Only  the  root  is  perennial.  The  soft,  twin- 
ing stem  does  not  peep  up  till  May  shines 
hot  and  splendid.  It  comes,  though,  with  a 
rush,  and  is  coiling  twenty  feet  in  air  ere  the 
long,  long  June  days  usher  in  high  summer. 

It  has  big,  ovate  leaves,  growing  by  fours 
around  the  green  stem.  You  would  never 
look  twice  at  its  white,  inconspicuous,  clus- 
tered flowers,  that  spring  from  the  axil  of 
each  fan  of  leaves.  Wait,  though,  for  the 
seed — round,  green,  translucent,  in  pendu- 
lous clusters — as  big  as,  more  graceful  than, 
Malaga  grapes.  What  Faun  or  Dryad  could 
wish  a  lovelier  crown  ? 

Unless,  indeed,  she  lingered  till  the  coral- 
vine  was  in  berry.  The  flexile,  green,  tough, 
slender  stem  has  almost  the  strength  of  steel, 
and  is  beset  all  its  length  with  waxy  leaves 
of  richest  green,  with  shining  clusters  of  red, 
red  berries,  whose  color,  intense  and  glow- 


94 

ing,  puts  the  bitter-sweet's  red  and  yellow 
out  of  countenance.  Frost  cannot  wither  it, 
nor  winter  pale  its  infinite  vitality.  In  the 
first  snow  you  find  it  gleaming  cheerily  amid 
briers  all  leafless,  or  around  tall,  dead  weeds. 

Mortal  maidens  choose  instead  of  it  "love- 
vine."  Wise  folk  call  it  dodder;  children, 
"gold-thread."  See  how  it  tangles  in  and 
out  of  the  waterside  growths,  making  webs 
of  spun  sunshine  below  their  dusk  of  leaves. 
A  true  parasite,  it  is  nobly  impartial.  You 
find  it  equally  in  sunlit  breadths  of  clover, 
in  this  tangle  of  dark  stems.  It  grows  rank- 
er upon  the  succulent  water-fed  plants. 

Would  you  practise  divination,  break  the 
tiniest  jointed  yellow  stem  and  fling  it  be- 
hind you  in  the  crotch  of  shrub  or  weed. 
Ten  days  later  look  at  it.  If  it  has  with- 
ered to  nothingness,  so  shall  your  under- 
taking fail — your  lover  prove  untrue.  Con- 
trarywise,  if  a  fine  yellow  thread  begins  to 
creep  out  from  new  knotted  roots,  you  may 
go  your  ways  rejoicing,  secure  of  good  faith, 
good  fortune.  Before  the  summer  ends  all 
the  clump  will  be  gold  laced  with  the  deli- 
cate deadly  twining.  For  though  the  sup- 
porting stem  may  flourish  greenly  through 
that  season,  it  puts  away  life  and  leaf  to- 
gether. New  stems  will  spring  from  the 


95 

root,  but  there  comes  not  leaf  or  bud  to 
those  that  the  love-vine  gilded. 

All  the  marsh-land  is  sweet  with  pinky- 
pale  swamp-roses.  There,  too,  the  big  green 
brake  grows  waist-high,  and  smaller  ferns  tan- 
gle in  the  shady  tree-set  places.  The  earthy 
banks  wave  to  you  long  sprays  of  Solomon's 
seal.  Pink-root  uplifts  to  sunshine  its  scar- 
let, gold-lined  trumpets,  as  gorgeous  almost 
as  the  cardinal-flower,  whose  scarlet  torch 
outflames  the  glow  of  August. 

Often,  too,  the  old  field  holds  sweetbrier, 
the  poet's  eglantine.  It  is  a  strangely  hu- 
man flower — even  here  where  Nature  is  so 
rapidly  reclaiming  her  lost  domain.  It  loves 
a  rich  root-hold ;  if  warm  and  stony,  all  the 
better.  Oftener  than  not  it  is  the  living, 
the  only  epitaph  of  a  forgotten  home.  Vivid 
hedge -rose  clusters,  pink  as  the  heavens 
at  dawn,  put  to  shame  its  scant  bestarment 
of  pale,  small,  single  blossoms ;  yet  are 
themselves  more  shamed  by  the  exquisite 
sylvan  fragrance  of  the  sweetbrier's  green 
leaves. 

Upland,  on  the  gulleyed  hill-sides,  "but- 
terfly-weed "  glows  in  summer  sunshine  like 
unto  hanclfuls  of  yellow-scarlet  flame  amid 
a  sea  of  feathery  sedge.  Broom-sedge  the 
country  folk  call  it,  or  sometimes  "  broom- 


96 

straw."  Many  a  hearth  in  the  old  days  was 
beswept  with  a  bunch  of  it,  big  as  the  two 
hands  could  hold,  bound  hard  and  fast  to- 
gether with  a  tough  white-oak  splint.  It  is  the 
plague  of  grass-land.  Against  its  winged 
seed,  lighter  far  than  thistle-down,  no  de- 
fence shall  avail. 

As  useless  as  it  is  beautiful,  it  is  omni- 
present. But  not  omnipotent.  Here  yel- 
low cinque-foil,  yellower  mimosa,  creep  them 
and  bloom  amid  its  bristly  tussocks.  The 
pink,  small  partridge  pea,  too,  climbs  pertly 
over  its  tall,  swaying  stalks ;  white,  waxen 
silk  weed  blossoms  nod  disdain  of  its  stiff 
plumes.  Sorrel,  pink  and  yellow,  straggles 
about  its  root ;  even  "  Nimble  Will,"  oth- 
erwise wire-grass,  goes  where  it  listeth  with- 
out regard  to  the  sensibilities  of  its  statelier 
brother. 

And  where  the  light  earth  lies  long  un- 
trodden, wild  strawberries  enter  in  and  pos- 
sess it,  as  though  the  sedge  but  grew  of  a 
purpose  to  shelter  them.  See  this  patch  of 
them,  all  agleam  with  fairy  fruit !  Do  but 
taste  it — then  say  truly  if  the  garden's  red, 
luscious  berries  are  worthy  to  be  named  in 
the  same  day  with  these  wild,  flavorous 
things.  It  was  of  such  as  they  that  the 
wise  man  wrote,  "  Certainly  God  might  have 


97 

made  a  better  berry,  but  certainly  God  never 
did." 

This  flat,  wet  breadth  is  the  dewberry's 
chosen  home.  Here  in  May  you  shall 
see  twenty-foot-long  trails  of  white  blooms, 
prone  on  the  earth  amid  sedge  and  wire- 
grass,  with  a  cloud  of  busy,  gold -dusted 
bees  sucking  sweet  content  from  all  the 
flower-hearts.  Here,  too,  in  June  you  may 
come  through  dew  and  sunrise  to  pick  sweet, 
black  fruit,  scarce  less  lucent  than  the  dew. 

Most  likely  the  partridges  will  be  there 
before  you.  Then  the  first  broods  have  just 
begun  to  run  freely  from  the  nest.  The 
brown  mothers  know  to  a  day  when  this 
dainty  fruit  is  ripe.  There  is  no  prettier 
sight  than  one  of  the  small,  shy  creatures, 
a  berry  in  her  bill,  calling  her  brood  to  the 
feast,  while  her  mate  stands  sharply  at  at- 
tention. 

To  see  it  you  must  needs  move  with  feet 
of  silence,  or  have  "  receipt  of  fern-seed  and 
walk  invisible."  If  you  do  but  stir  or  break 
a  twig,  the  old  birds  give  a  little  quavering 
cry,  the  young  ones  melt  into  the  grass — 
the  earth — their  elders  meanwhile  fluttering 
away  with  tossing,  squawking,  and  beating 
of  wings. 

Birds  of  all  feather  flock  to  the  feast  of 
7 


98 

dewberries.  About  the  vines  you  may  meet 
Robin  Redbreast,  that  noisy  coxcomb,  the 
red-headed  woodpecker,  sober  thrush,  gor- 
geous oriole,  the  big,  black  log-cock,  blue- 
bird, wren,  and  jay. 

Master  Mocking-bird,  too  —  a  fellow  of 
infinite  jest.  Sometimes  it  is  his  humor  to 
go,  slow  of  wing,  to  a  laden,  crowded  vine, 
uttering,  as  he  flies,  the  cry  of  the  cruel 
blue-winged  hawk.  It  may  be  only  a  grew- 
some  jest.  Most  likely,  though,  it  is  done 
with  intent  to  frighten  away  bigger  birds, 
who  might  dispute  with  this  winged  humor- 
ist the  bes;t  place  at  Nature's  feast. 

A  little  while,  and  the  raspberries  hang 
blacker,  sweeter,  more  full  of  fine  savor,  in 
all  the  shady  thickets.  To  that  feast  come 
garter  and  chicken  snakes  as  well  as  red- 
breast and  red-head.  The  harmless  ser- 
pents acoil  about  the  vines  evoke  no  protest 
from  those  peaceful  birds.  Yet  those  feath- 
ered termagants,  the  cat-bird  and  the  mocker, 
set  up  a  wondrous  hue  and  cry  if  once  they 
spy  a  reptile. 

Blackberry  time  brings  the  old  field  other 
visitors  than  those  that  creep  and  fly.  Pigs 
wriggle  through  rotting  fences  to  feast  on 
fallen  fruit,  coons  and  possums  steal  in  by 
the  glimpses  of  the  moon.  Day  by  day 


99 

r~ 

housewives,  market -pickers,  come,  and  go 
away  full -handed.  So,  too,  do  the  gray 
squirrels — the  Ariels  of  the  wood. 

For  the  blackberry  is  a  very  democrat. 
It  thrives  best  in  the  freedom  of  waste  land, 
growing  over  all  for  all.  Its  best-beloved 
haunt  is  an  old,  old  orchard,  where  it  may 
root  and  twine  about  half-dead  peach-trees, 
or  gnarled,  half-bent,  close -stemmed  seed- 
ling apples,  starveling  reminders  of  the  days 
when  the  old  field  was  closer  in  touch  with 
humanity.  This  small,  imperfect  fruit  often 
makes  up  in  savor  for  what  it  lacks  of  sub- 
stance. 

Plum  thickets  are,  in  some  sort,  the  ghosts 
of  long-dead  gardens.  The  original  root, 
perhaps,  defended  the  fence's  weakest  cor- 
ner. When  it  was  torn  away,  the  sturdy 
growth  remained  to  mark  the  vanished 
home-seat,  to  hang  fair-colored,  juicy  ovals 
by  the  thousand  and  ten  thousand  to  tempt 
or  refresh  the  wayfarer  who  stops  for  a  min- 
ute in  their  thorny  shade. 

Woe  to  him  if  a  wild  plum  tempts  his 
lip.  Its  rich  bloom  promises  sugary  sweets  ; 
yet,  until  the  fruit  has  lain  mellowing  for 
days  on  the  warm  earth  at  foot,  it  is  almost 
as  bitterly  astringent  as  a  green  persimmon. 

Saith  the  Arab  proverb,  "The  reward  of 


TOO 


good  works  is  like  dates — sweet,  and  ripen- 
ing late."  For  date  read  persimmon,  and 
you  are  not  far  off  the  truth.  Persimmons 
grow  often  in  the  woods,  but  reach  their  last 
and  best  estate  here  in  the  old  field.  It  is 
a  wonderfully  vital  plant.  A  chance-sown 
seed  will  be  in  three  years  a  tree  coming 
into  fruit.  One,  too,  that  can  be  got  rid  of 
only  by  the  most  rigorous  grubbing.  June 
sees  its  green  flowers  full  of  subtlest  sylvan 
fragrance.  Six  weeks  later  all  the  twigs  are 
sown  along  their  under  sides  with  hard,  pale- 
green  spheroids  that  in  two  months  more  are 
yellow  and  dusted  over  with  whitish-purple 
bloom. 

Thenceforward  they  merely  hang  high  till 
the  time  of  killing  frost.  If  that  keeps  off  till 
December,  your  true  persimmony  persimmon 
clings  to  its  roughness,  albeit  here  and  there 
an  early  faint-heart  is  eatable.  Master  Pos- 
sum is  the  best  guide  to  such  an  one.  He 
is  at  once  connoisseur  and  epicure,  whose 
taste  you  may  safely  follow.  Most  trees  are 
sweet  and  stripped  by  Christmas.  The  very 
roughest  hang  on  until  February — a  special 
providence  to  all  manner  of  wild  things, 
when  their  usual  larders  are  deep  under  the 
snow. 

If  chance  sets  such  fruit  in  your  way,  taste 


101 


it  without  fail.  The  flavor  is  unique — some- 
thing betwixt  a  reminiscence  and  a  promise. 
Besides,  the  old  field  yields  hazel-nuts  for 
Halloween,  crab-apples  to  tantalize  you  with 
their  exquisite  fragrance,  wild  grapes,  red 
and  black  haws.  Indeed,  whether  of  savor 
or  beauty  or  sweetness,  the  half  hath  not 
been  told. 


WHEAT   HARVEST 


SUMMER  day  betwixt  dawn 
and  sunrise.  White  mist 
wreaths  hang  about  the  tree- 
tops,  grass  land  and  clover 
spread  a  gray  shimmer  of  dew. 
In  the  east  a  clear  shining,  with  the  faintest 
rose  tinge  showing  through  its  translucence. 
There  is  no  breath  of  air.  The  big  new 
leaves  hang  still  and  stirless,  save  when 
some  bird  in  full  song  flashes  in  and  out. 
The  whole  world  has  voice.  From  the  wood 
comes  the  locust's  shrilling ;  crows  wheel  and 
caw  in  the  blue  overhead.  There  is  a  low 
call  from  the  bittern,  flying  straight  and  swift 
to  her  nest  in  the  marsh  two  miles  away,  and 
stealing  under  and  through  it  the  plaintive 
cry  of  hungry  young  hawks  from  the  cradle 
of  sticks  high  up  in  the  big  poplar.  Jarring 
notes  these,  that  serve  to  accent  the  flooding 
melody  of  robin,  bluebird,  thrush,  and  oriole. 
Surely  a  thousand  throats  are  attuned  in  the 
shelter  of  hedgerow  and  thicket,  where  wild 


IQ3 

rose  and  elder  and  grape  blossoms  by  ten 
thousands  send  wafts  of  vivid  fragrance  into 
the  morning  air.  A  heavier  scent  under- 
lies and  strengthens  it — something  subtle 
and  penetrating,  faint  yet  vivifying,  like  the 
smell  of  clean,  fresh-turned  earth.  It  is  the 
odor  of  wheat -fields  yellow  unto  harvest. 
See  how  they  spread  broad,  billowing  reach- 
es that  the  first  low  level  sunbeams  turn  to 
midsummer  gold !  If,  indeed,  Persephone 
came  back  to  earth  in  such  guise,  well  might 
Demeter,  the  great  mother,  rejoice  and  make 
festival  over  the  coming.  Here  are  the 
year's  first  fruits,  the  most  golden  gift  in  all 
the  horn  of  plenty.  Mark  the  grace  of  it. 
The  sere  blades  drooping  at  the  root,  stalks 
upright  in  their  bravery  of  golden  mail,  bent 
bearded  heads,  with  a  dew  pearl  on  the  tip 
of  each  defensive  spear.  Some  few,  you 
will  note,  stand  pertly  upright.  The  har- 
vest-master will  tell  you  there  is  nothing 
but  chaff  in  them  ;  and,  if  so  minded,  you 
can  draw  a  moral  of  the  humility  of  full 
heads.  But  not  at  the  minute.  Sharp 
through  the  sylvan  chorus  come  the  clang 
of  whetted  steel,  the  blur  of  wheels  and 
hoofs,  and  men's  voices.  The  cradlers  have 
trooped  over  the  fence,  and  stand  whetting 
their  blades  under  the  big  mulberry,  from 


IQ4 

which  they  have  scared  a  flock  of  noisy 
blackbirds.  They  will  work  here  in  the  fresh 
land  where  big  stumps  forbid  the  use  of  ma- 
chinery. 

At  the  farther  edge,  through  the  wide 
gate,  comes  the  self-binding  reaper,  spick- 
and-span  in  red  paint  and  bright  steel.  It 
is  a  ponderous  affair  of  wheels  and  reels 
and  belts  and  aprons.  There  is  something 
almost  uncanny  about  it.  The  four  mules 
who  draw  it  go  at  a  trot,  and  faster  than  eye 
can  follow  huge  wire -bound  sheaves  are 
tossed  so  far  aside  as  to  be  out  of  the  way 
next  round.  It  does  twenty  men's  work, 
and  does  it  thoroughly;  but  for  the  true 
harvest  flavor  you  must  follow  the  cradlers. 
Stout  fellows  they  must  needs  be,  and  well 
in  their  prime.  It  is  a  rhythm  of  motion, 
a  harmony  of  mighty  muscle,  to  see  them 
arow,  sweeping  the  golden  grain  into  straight, 
gleaming  swaths.  They  cut  the  field  in 
squares,  and  as  a  corner  is  reached  the 
leader  steps  out,  and  breathes  himself  till 
the  last  man  has  brought  up  his  swath. 
Then  they  fall  in,  one  behind  the  other, 
with  the  precision  of  soldiers  on  parade. 
Sweep  for  sweep,  blade  to  heel  they  go. 
Now  the  leader  quickens  his  stroke.  It  is 
ten  o'  the  clock, dew  has  vanished,  blades  will 


IQ5 

hold  edge,  and  muscles  are  warm  and  sup- 
ple for  a  race.  "  All  good  men  follow  me," 
he  shouts  over  his  shoulder,  whirling  his 
bright  blade  through  the  bending  grain  with 
the  speed  and  force  of  some  mighty  engine. 
The  good  men  are  not  slow  to  follow.  With 
straining  muscle,  with  panting  breath,  they 
surge  forward.  The  air  is  alive  with  the 
glimmer  of  steel ;  grain  falls  as  before  a 
whirlwind.  The  day  is  white-hot — unbear- 
ably so  to  an  idler,  but  grateful  and  life- 
giving  to  workers  bathed  in  perspiration 
from  head  to  heel. 

When  the  farm-bell  rings  dinner-time  the 
square  is  almost  done,  and  there  are  rab- 
bits galore  in  its  small  remnant.  Wheat  is 
Molly  Cottontail's  chosen  summer  ambush. 
With  her  children  she  has  run  in  and  in  from 
the  flash  of  steel,  little  dreaming  that  they 
will  be  left  no  abiding- place,  no  stalks  of 
refuge.  Swish  !  swish  !  swish  !  in  ceaseless 
round  now  go  the  gleaming  blades.  One 
drops  out,  another,  another,  from  the  swiftly 
narrowing  space.  It  is  but  a  thin  fringe 
now,  with  a  dozen  small,  frightened,  puny 
things  darting  hither  and  yon  through  it. 
The  last  swath  falls.  There  is  a  wild,  exult- 
ant whoop,  a  sudden  scurry  of  feet,  the  leap- 
ing of  poor  Cottontail  towards  all  quarters 


io6 


—  pursuit,  capture,  laughter,  and  shouting. 
The  captors  hang  their  cradles  carefully  in 
the  shade,  and  go  jocundly  to  their  waiting 
dinner. 

See  what  a  green  tent  the  great  mulberry 
spreads  here  in  this  sea  of  gold  !  The  limbs 
droop  quite  to  meet  the  springing  grain. 
You  have  but  to  reach  forth  a  hand  and 
pluck  the  luscious  fruit.  If  you  like  not  the 
flavor,  come  on  to  the  near  hedge-row,  where 
wild  raspberries  hang  ripe  and  juicy,  and 
dainty  enough  for  Titania's  banquet.  Make 
a  cup  for  them  of  grape-leaves,  and  your 
feast  shall  have  true  woodland  savor.  Or, 
if  you  have  a  mind  for  flowers,  fill  your  arms 
with  milk-white  elder  clusters,  with  pink 
trails  of  wild  rose  and  wax -white  milk-weed 
blossom  and  garish  butterfly  orchis,  besides 
clematis  and  brake  fern,  and  scarlet  pink- 
root  and  yellow  cinque-foil,  and  a  hundred 
nameless  beautiful  things  that  blush  unseen 
through  wood  and  field.  Gather,  and  go 
quickly  to  shelter.  The  noon  heat  is  like 
a  furnace.  It  will  shrivel  up  your  blossoms 
even  quicker  than  it  cures  the  grain.  Sheaves 
half  green  this  morning  lie  dry  and  yellow, 
ready  to  be  put  in  the  shock.  Long  ere 
nightfall  the  whole  field  will  be  thick  set 
with  the  golden  cones.  Towards  evening 


IQ7 

there  may  come  clouds,  scattered  white  cu- 
muli that  foretell  fine  weather's  continu- 
ance. As  one  drifts  over  the  sun  the  har- 
vest-master looks  up  and  smiles  at  the 
grateful  shadow.  He  knows  what  it  means 
— that  the  pains  of  seed-time  will  not  be 
lost  at  harvest. 


HIGH   SUMMER 


GOOD  green  world  is  rolling 
from  the  silvern  stillness  of 
dawn  to  the  glory  of  golden 
day.  Low  cloud  rims  the  east- 
ern world's  edge,  a  Titan's  ram- 
part, over  which  the  sun  is  sending  long, 
white  arrows  far  up  the  brightening  sky. 
Underneath  it,  what  enchantment !  What 
winds  of  balm  blow  low  from  shorn  mead- 
ows, from  breadths  of  rank  clover,  where 
sleek,  mild-eyed  cattle  graze  knee-deep  in 
purple  bloom!  What  bird -song  wells  up 
from  each  tree  and  shrub  !  Clear  and  sweet, 
it  tells  of  love  in  the  joy  of  fruition — a  dif- 
ferent harmony  truly  from  the  exultant,  din- 
some  clamor  of  nesting-time.  No  wonder 
the  winged  choir  is  happy !  The  nests  are 
ateem  with  fledglings,  and  field,  hedge-row, 
and  orchard  yield  now  rich  largess  of  grain 
and  berry  and  creeping  things,  all  alike  tooth- 
some to  small,  hungry  mouths. 

As  the  winds  blow  the  birds  sing  high 


summer ;  so,  too,  does  the  dew  proclaim  it. 
Touch  the  branch  above,  you  shall  be 
drenched  in  a  fairy  bath ;  step  but  once 
from  the  path,  your  feet  are  sodden.  And 
was  ever  aught  fairer  than  this  feathery  oat- 
field,  bediamonded  at  every  point?  On 
blade  and  stalk,  on  each  drooping  grain, 
the  bright  beads  stand  arow.  The  sun 
sends  down  a  shaft,  and  lo  !  a  world  of 
rainbows  flashes  back  to  you  from  the  toss- 
ing blue-green  mass.  May  has  dew,  indeed, 
grateful  alike  to  soul  and  sense,  but  not  to 
be  named  beside  this  lucent  love-gift  of  still 
midsummer  nights.  Midsummer  fairies  have 
blessed  it,  too.  Go  through  it  as  you  will- 
lave  you  in  thick  leafage  or  tramp  sturdily 
over  streaming  grass -land  —  you  shall  be 
none  the  worse  of  it.  Not  even  if  you  dare 
invade  the  corn-field,  with  its  rank  upon  rank 
of  dark -green  knights  —  true  warriors  all, 
that  shall  put  to  flight  the  grim  ogre  Fam- 
ine. Plumed  knights  are  they,  with  every 
plume  true  gold.  See  the  yellow  dust  that 
powders  all  the  field.  Mark,  too,  the  fine, 
faint  incense-cloud  that  the  dawn  wind  has 
scarce  strength  to  blow  away  from  the  field 
of  tossing  spears.  The  breath  of  it  in  the 
nostrils  is  half  barbaric — neither  sweet  nor 
bitter,  yet  full  of  subtle  suggestion.  Again 


no 


you  see  Choctaw  and  Cherokee,  Seneca  and 
Oneida,  range  the  fair  land,  and  hold  corn- 
dance  or  sing  death  -  song.  Truly  these 
warrior  stalks,  green  and  sturdy,  shall  serve 
while  time  endures  to  recall  that  lost  race. 

For  the  most  part,  there  is  only  bare  black 
earth  at  foot  of  these  lancers  of  plenty.  Now 
and  again  you  see  a  tuft  of  crab-grass  send- 
ing its  slender  claws  all  along  the  clean  fur- 
rows. Here,  too,  where  a  runnel  brings  down 
the  wash  of  the  garden,  there  spreads  an  acre 
of  morning-glories.  How  they  climb  and 
writhe  from  stalk  to  stalk !  What  witchery 
of  tender  lines  they  spread  here  in  this  green 
gloom  !  White,  blue,  pink,  crimson,  royal 
purple,  glaring  scarlet,  spotted  and  striped 
in  all  fashions,  the  wreathen  bells  hang,  as 
tenderly  translucent  as  though  shaped  from 
dawn  and  dew.  Truly  these  be  sweet  bells 
that  shall  never  jangle  out  of  tune.  In  the 
open  they  would  live  scarce  an  hour ;  here, 
high  noon  will  find  them  fair  as  the  day  it- 
self, with  yet  a  loitering  dew-drop  in  each 
pearly  heart. 

Far  different  are  the  marsh  -  blossoms 
glowing  so  yellowly  upon  its  border.  They 
might  be  made  of  sun-rays  massed  and  mint- 
ed, so  stiff,  so  golden,  do  they  nod.  Prouder 
than  pride  they  stand,  turning  full  heaven- 


Ill 


ward  the  bravery  of  their  brown  velvet  hearts, 
enrayed  with  hue  so  dazzling  it  outvies  the 
summer  sun.  Until  frost  falls  they  are  fade- 
less ;  scentless,  too.  What  wonder  that  no 
hand  cares  to  pluck  !  Of  a  verity,  sweet- 
ness is  sometimes  better  than  light,  especi- 
ally if  you  happen  to  be  born  a  flower. 

Or  even  a  fruit.  Here,  in  the  orchard, 
harvest-apples  hang  palely  golden  amid  the 
clustering  leaves.  Fair  to  see,  indeed,  but 
not  for  a  minute  comparable  with  the  mel- 
low, pinkish-streaked  Junes.  Who  eateth  of 
them  shall  not  find 

"  Dead  Sea  fruit,  that  tempts  the  eye, 
But  turns  to  ashes  on  the  lip." 

<>  (Tfe 

Walk  but  a  little  farther,  though,  and  ap- 
ples shall  not  tempt  you,  howsoever  much 
of  Eve  our  mother  there  may  be  in  your  soul. 
At  the  farther  edge  you  come  on  peach- 
trees  bent  to  earth  with  a  rich  burden.  Big, 
downy  ovals,  pink  and  white  or  yellow  and 
crimson,  and  fairly  bursting  with  sweet  juice. 
Pluck  one  from  a  topmost  bough,  one  that 
the  sun  has  but  just  warmed  on  one  side, 
while  the  other  is  yet  cool  and  dew-wet  ; 
eat  it  upon  the  instant  ;  then  say  if  you 
would  change  for  nectar  and  ambrosia, 
though  served  by  Hebe's  self.  Whoso  nev- 


er  sees  peach-trees  ablossom,  or  in  this  man- 
ner eats  of  the  fruit  thereof,  misses  some- 
what of  life's  pure  joys.  At  flower,  its  almond 
scent  is  the  finest  note  in  April's  harmony 
of  perfume  ;  at  fruit,  the  odor  is  as  truly  the 
crown  and  perfecting  of  summer  sweets.  It 
is  like  nothing  else  under  the  sun.  Breathe 
it  with  shut  eyelids,  and  you  shall  see  vi- 
sions and  dream  dreams.  It  is  Nature's  last 
touch— the  crowning  mercy  of  her  marvel- 
lous handiwork.  Peaches  picked  for  mar- 
ket three  .days  or  six  before  ripeness  have 
never  the  ghost  of  it.  Here  it  comes,  hot 
and  sweet,  upon  all  the  low  winds  that 
breathe  rather  than  blow.  On  their  wings 
it  follows — follows  far  out  into  the  grass- 
land, where  sheep,  shorn  but  a  month,  graze 
in  full-fed  content.  What  eyes  the  creat- 
ures have  —  stupid,  gentle,  appealing,  full, 
too,  of  timid  curiosity !  Drop  your  hand- 
kerchief upon  some  small  shrub  or  brier, 
and  mark  how  they  will  circle  about  it  with 
lifted  heads,  longing,  yet  fearing,  to  approach 
the  fluttering  thing. 

Noon  comes  with  short  shadows,  with  stir- 
less  air.  A  hot  shimmer  wraps  all  the  world. 
Sounds  die  in  it  to  a  drowsy  hum.  Even 
the  cicada's  rasping  is  a  monotone  of  peace. 
Bees  shelter  them  in  the  hearts  of  flowers. 


The  babbling  runnel  drones  a  slumber 
song.  And,  lying  in  deep  shade,  with  the 
lulling  sough  of  leaves  overhead,  you  look 
abroad  to  say,  "God's  world  is  very  good." 


DOWN  THE   CREEK 


iHATEVER  the  season,  it  is  a 
place  of  delight.  The  creek 
itself  is  no  sluggish  stream 
crawling  betwixt  muddy  banks. 
In  winter  it  is  a  bold,  blue  tor- 
rent, brawling  rarely  over  pebbles  and  around 
boulders.  Spring  makes  of  it  almost  a  river, 
swirling  and  boiling  from  hill  to  hill.  Heats 
of  August  shrink  it  to  a  bare  thread  of  bright 
water,  stealing  in  long  runnels  through  the 
water -worn  grooves  in  its  limestone  bed. 
Sometimes  they  take  most  curious  shapes. 
Here  is  a  capital  W  written  in  limpid  wave- 
lets upon  a  stretch  of  solid  stone.  Where 
the  channel  falls  it  is  no  trouble  to  step 
across  it.  About  every  half-mile  comes  a 
"lake,"  where  gravel  beds,  fallen  timber,  and 
dead  leaves  have  built  an  alluvial  dam  and 
spread  a  long,  bright  pool,  wherein  frogs 
and  fish  and  muskrats  disport  themselves 
the  summer  through. 

Oddly  enough,  when  the  wood-birds  go 


bathing,  they  prefer  the  dancing  ripples  to 
the  still  shining  of  the  pools.  Instinct,  per- 
haps, tells  them  of  the  greedy  fish  and  big, 
hungry  turtles  that  lie  in  wait  in  the  depths. 
See  that  pair  of  wood-ducks  wheedling  and 
chattering  about  the  half-dead  sycamore  that 
bends  over  the  stream.  Mrs.  Duck  made 
her  nest  in  the  soft,  rotten  wood  at  top  of 
it.  She  has  just  hatched  out  a  dozen  balls 
of  yellow  down,  and  is  setting  about  getting 
them  down  to  the  water.  Once  there,  they 
will  swim  like  ducks  indeed.  But  flying  is 
as  yet  beyond  them,  and  the  nest  is  twenty 
feet  in  air.  Look  close,  and  you  will  see 
the  mother  bird  poised  with  half -spread 
wings  just  outside  the  nest.  Slowly,  cau- 
tiously, with  low  cries,  her  mate  pushes 
one  of  the  ducklings  quite  upon  the  middle 
of  her  back,  gives  a  sharp,  satisfied  quack, 
and  at  once  she  sails  down,  settles  her- 
self in  mid-stream,  dives  gently,  and  leaves 
her  baby  sitting  on  the  water  without  in  the 
least  knowing  how  he  got  there.  With  a 
shake  of  the  wings  and  a  quack  that  says 
"  Take  care  !"  she  is  off  to  the  nest,  and 
keeps  it  up  till  all  her  little  ones  are  launched. 
As  she  brings  the  last  a  cruel  thing  happens. 
Right  below  her  flock  there  is  a  swift  up- 
swirling  of  water.  Something  brown  and 


Ji6 


unwieldy  comes  almost  to  the  surface,  then 
sinks  like  lead,  and  takes  with  it  the  plump- 
est, downiest  of  all  the  yellow  darlings.  In- 
side a  minute  another  is  dragged  down,  and 
another,  and  still  another.  The  snapping- 
turtle,  which,  once  he  has  taken  hold,  "  nev- 
er lets  go  until  it  thunders,"  is  greedy  to- 
day. Anyway,  he  has  a  weakness  for  duck- 
lings. He  would  eat  the  whole  dozen  of 
them  if  the  distracted  parents  did  not  hurry 
them  ashore. 

There  they  will  not  be  in  very  much  bet- 
ter case.     Foxes  live  in  the  caves  all  along 

O 

the  bluffs.  Minks,  too,  and  weasels,  and 
coons.  Any  night  you  may  hear  them 
splashing  about  in  the  water  for  mussels, 
crayfish,  and  such  small  deer.  Master  Fox 
is  no  fisherman,  but  in  many  ways  an  antic 
fellow.  It  delights  him  no  little  to  find  a 
safe,  sunny  rock  overhanging  a  glassy  pool, 
where  he  can  bask  in  broad  daylight  or 
stand  on  tiptoe  and  play  with  his  tail,  nod 
his  head,  and  seem  to  laugh  outright  when 
his  image  in  the  water  repeats  each  motion. 
He  is  dainty  in  his  drinking — will  cross  the 
creek  a  dozen  times  to  lap  and  lave  him  in 
its  coolest  spring.  As  each  lake  has  its  bluff, 
each  bluff  has  its  spring.  If  its  waters  gath- 
er in  plough-land  they  are  apt  to  be  warm 


H7 

and  still.  If  they  drain  grass  or  woodland, 
and  come  out  under  fifty  feet  of  rock,  they 
will  be  cool  and  sweet  as  moonlight  over 
snow.  Here  is  the  Fox  Spring  par  excellence. 
It  gathers  in  the  big  South  Wood,  whose 
edge  you  see  fringing  the  top  of  the  bluff. 

The  bluff  faces  north — a  sheer  wall  of 
blue  limestone,  seamed  and  broken  into 
huge  ledges.  In  the  cleft  of  one  a  young 
hickory  has  got  root,  and  springs  straight 
and  tall  six  feet  beyond  the  top.  All  man- 
ner of  wild  vines  grow  in  other  clefts — grape 
vines,  wild  ivy,  poison-oak,  trail  down  almost 
into  the  water.  The  glory  of  it,  though,  is 
its  ferns.  The  trailing  rock-fern  runs  all 
over  the  face  of  it ;  each  seam  and  cleft 
is  a  thick  fringe  of  maidenhair,  knee-high 
wherever  it  gets  good  root.  At  the  foot  it 
springs  into  a  veritable  fairy  forest,  gemmed 
here  and  there  with  the  coral  of  Indian  tur- 
nip and  Solomon's  seal. 

All  the  rocks  about  the  spring  that  sun- 
shine never  touches  are  beset  with  lichens 
and  liverworts,  green  and  gray.  Twenty 
feet  away,  in  a  mass  of  mould  that  was  once 
a  fallen  tree,  is  a  blackberry  clump,  bent  to 
earth  with  rich  fruit.  Eat  your  fill  of  it,  and 
carry  home  a  good  few.  What  if  you  have 
no  basket?  Berries  like  these  grow  only 


n8 


where  dew  and  fairies  are  plenty ;  and  here 
are  sycamore  leaves  as  wide  as  your  two 
"hands.  Pin  a  mat  of  them  together  with 
their  own  leaf -stalks,  bend  a  willow,  twig 
about  the  edge,  and  heap  it  with  berries  half 
as  long  as  your  finger  and  meltingly  sweet. 
Then  wreath  the  basket  about  with  yellow 
love  vine  and  feathery  grasses,  set  it  out  in 
the  dew  to-night,  and  morning  will  show  you 
that  the  day  of  miracles  is  not  wholly  past. 

Drink  of  the  Fox  Spring  before  you  leave 
it.  There  is  no  such  water  in  three  coun- 
ties. You  may  use  the  ancient  gourd  that 
hangs  on  the  root  above  it.  If  you  are  wise, 
though,  you  will  lie  all  along  the  cool  brink 
of  it,  and  let  the  living  water  lave  your  lips ; 
or  else  kneel,  gather  it  in  your  scooped 
palms,  and  drink  and  drink  the  nectar  of 
the  wood-sprites. 

The  stream  is  delightfully  vagrant.  It 
bends,  turns,  and  doubles  upon  itself  in  each 
half-mile.  The  bluffs  alternate  with  curious 
regularity.  The  next  one  faces  south-by- 
east.  There  you  find  always  the  first  he- 
paticas.  All  winter  its  big,  red-brown  leaves 
curl  and  cling  to  each  clefted  rock  to  break 
in  late  January,  or  by  St.  Valentine's  at  lat- 
est, into  wreathy  stars — white,  paly  pink,  or 
blue,  or  purple. 


The  bluff  itself  is  low — a  bare  ten  feejt, 
with  big  rocks  standing  out  all  over  the  sheer 
face  of  it.  A  big  hill  crowns  it,  and  goes  up 
to  the  level  of  the  plateau  behind.  There 
the  water-nymphs  have  their  flower-garden. 
Anemones  grow  there  ;  daisies  ;  violets  ;  the 
wild  cowslips,  with  flower  like  the  hot-house 
cyclamen;  sweet williams ;  blue-flag;  colum- 
bine, purple  and  scarlet ;  sweet  brier  and 
bramble  rose;  and  white  August  lilies.  Be- 
side them  a  great  multitude  of  nameless, 
delicately  beautiful  things.  There  is  one 
trailer  whose  leaf  recalls  the  mimosa,  and 
whose  white  blossom  seems  a  cluster  of 
sweet-peas  made  for  fairy  wearing.  Another 
hangs  out  a  fringe  of  white  cups,  shaped  like 
the  lily -of -the -valley;  and  still  another 
shakes  long,  yellow,  gold  -  dusty  tassels  in 
each  sweet  spring  wind.  The  chiefest  of 
them  though  is  a  vine,  a  woody  climber,  with 
handsome,  dark  green  leaves  and  flowers  of 
true  wall-flower  yellow,  but  in  shape  and  size 
like  a  nasturtium.  The  root  of  it  loves 
water,  and  the  richness  of  crumbling  rock. 
It  grows  at  the  water-side,  and  clambers  up 
the  rocky  face  to  fling  down  torrents  of 
trailing  bloom.  The  native  purple  wistaria 
has  much  the  same  habit.  Its  pale,  pendu- 
lous clusters  make  the  creek-side  throughout 


v   120 


April  a  long  dream  of  bloom.  In  May  there 
is  the  flash  of  scarlet  Virginia  creeper,  be- 
loved alike  of  butterfly  and  humming-bird. 
Master  Ruby -throat  often  builds  his  wee 
nest  in  its  shelter,  and  always  draws  from 
its  deep  cup  his  choicest  sweets. 

In  the  pebbly  reaches  that  spring  floods 
cover  yearly  you  find  pink  and  purple  lark- 
spur, the  curious  root  known  locally  as 
"Adam  and  Eve,"  Jack-in-the-pulpit,  yel- 
low celandine,  and  yellow,  wild  mimosa. 
Wherever  there  is  a  bit  of  fine  earth  blue 
grass  springs  spontaneously,  starred  with  a 
million  dandelions.  Countless  May  apples 
burst  up  through  it,  too — there  is  apt  to  be 
a  pawpaw  thicket — and  if  the  earthy  bank 
abuts  upon  the  water  a  fringe  of  green,  stiff 
rushes. 

After  the  first  frost  go  down  the  creek  for 
chestnuts  and  scaly-barks.  You  will  walk 
through  a  glory  of  yellow  leaves,  with  the 
smell  of  new-fallen  ones  coming  sweet  from 
under  foot.  Grassland  is  green  as  in  May. 
Only  weeds  and  stubble  lie  sere  in  the  low 
sun-rays.  The  winds  breathe,  rather  than 
blow,  yet  the  ripe  nuts  patter,  patter,  at  each 
sigh  of  them.  Gather  good  store,  but  leave 
plenty  for  the  squirrels.  Winter  is  at  hand, 
and  they  are  rightful  heirs  to  Nature's  bounty. 


When  it  does  coine,  the  few  days  of  bit- 
ter cold  about  the  winter  solstice,  there  is 
Fairyland  all  down  the  creek.  The  lakes 
skim  over  with  clear,  commonplace  ice.  In 
the  swift  runs  there  is  ice  only  along  the 
edges.  But  ice  of  such  clear  shining,  such 
wonderful  shapes,  as  freezes  nowhere  else. 
Each  leaf  is  armored  in  lace  of  diamond, 
each  twig  and  grass-spear  has  its  pendent 
pearl,  moss  and  lichen  are  transfigured,  stone 
and  pebble  made  harmonies  of  frost. 

All  the  shelving  bluffs,  whence  waters  drip 
so  cool  through  summer  days,  are  hung  with 
huge  icicles,  points  of  fluted  pearl.  They 
grow  upward  as  well  as  downward.  If  the 
frost  holds  a  week  they  meet  in  hour-glass 
fashion,  and  stand  white  ghosts  of  fair  water 
that  only  the  south  wind  can  make  again 
alive. 

He  is  not  slow  in  rescue.  He  comes  at 
night,  with  a  roar  and  rush  of  rain.  In  a  day 
the  ice  is  broken  up,  and  a  turbid  torrent, 
full  of  drift  and  silt,  goes  racing  to  the  river 
valley,  to  rest  at  last  in  the  sea. 


IN  THE  ROSE  GARDEN 


;TEP  lightly;  it  is  enchanted 
ground — the  one  realm  left  to 
fairies  and  their  queen.  Do 
you  not  see  them  at  hide-and- 
seek  among  the  leaves?  The 
moon,  low  in  the  east,  has  one  white  star 
for  company.  Over  and  beyond  it  steals  the 
pale  luminance  of  new-coming  day.  In  the 
rare,  tremulous,  tender  light,  mark  what  jew- 
els gleam  on  fairy  robes  of  pink  and  pearl,  of 
yellow  and  crimson,  and  scarlet  and  creamy 
white  !  No  diamond  has  such  fire,  no  pearl 
such  roundness ;  the  most  cunning  work- 
man cannot  set  them  so  daintily  about.  All 
night  long  there  has  been  high  revel  here, 
with  honey  for  the  banquet  and  wine  of 
perfume.  The  noise  of  it,  elfin  music  and 
singing  and  laughter,  stole  into  your  sleep, 
and  awoke  you,  with  wet  eyelids,  from  a 
dream  of  youth  and  love.  As  the  horned 
moon  climbed  over  the  sky's  rim  the  chant 
grew  madder,  merrier.;  dancers  flew  quick- 


123 

er  than  light.  Now  the  morning-star  pales 
out  of  sight  in  the  pink  heaven.  All  the 
horns  of  Elfland  blow  a  faint,  final  fanfare. 
The  sprites  pelt  one  the  other  with  diadem 
and  coronet  and  wreathen  ropes  of  pearl, 
A  bird  sings  loud  and  clear,  the  white  light 
strengthens,  and  drowsy-eyed  folk  who  know 
not  fairies  look  abroad,  and  see  roses — red 
or  pale  or  white — all  dipped  and  decked,  in 
dew. 

What  sight  so  fair,  even  to  every-day  eyes  ? 
Queen  Rose  is  the  poet  of  blossoms  no  less 
than  the  blossom  of  poets.  Here  in  this 
corner  is  sweetbrier,  breathing  out  a  lyric 
tinged  with  savor  of  the  woodlands,  from 
branches  beset  with  small,  pale,  shrinking 
flowers.  Too  small  for  all  her  soul  of  per- 
fume, it  exhales  from  the  leaves  as  well. 
Beyond  comes  a  border  all  awreath  with 
golden  bloom.  Truly  its  splendor  is  epic. 
No  Field  of  the  Cloth  of  Gold  can  outvie 
this  its  name-flower.  It  is  vividly  vital — 
a  picture  of  rampant  growth  and  blowth. 
All  the  wide  trellis  is  overrun  and  bestarred 
with  golden  blossoms,  yet  long  new  trails 
lie  on  the  earth  about  the  root. 

And  what  royal  grace  clings  and  abides  in 
even  the  half-open  buds  !  True  aristocrats, 
they  grace  any  station  whereunto  they  may 


be  called,  yet  give  out  sweetness  and  good 
cheer  if  they  fall  to  the  lowliest  use;  even 
more  so  than  that  ruddy  milkmaid,  the  hun- 
dred-leaf, whose  pink,  wrinkled,  crowded 
disks  nod  pertly  from  the  near  thicket.  Is 
there  not  a  pastoral— full  of  Corydon  and 
Phyllis,  and  love-rhymes  and  milking-songs 
— writ  large  in  her  crumpled  petals  ?  Truly 
you  must  be  dull,  indeed,  if  you  do  not  read 
it  at  first  blush.  She  is  the  rose  of  use,  not 
beauty.  Her  hundred  leaves  yield  rose- 
water  of  most  vernal  savor.  They  are  best 
of  all,  too,  for  drying  and  scattering  in  places 
that  you  would  make  daintily  sweet.  Next 
comes  the  blush-rose,  delicate  as  dawn,  a  mad- 
rigal of  dew  and  summer  and  sunshine  all 
compact.  In  among  it  that  blossomy  spend- 
thrift, the  damask  rose,  drops  trails  of  scar- 
let clusters.  If  battle-song  ever  takes  visi- 
ble form  and  substance  it  must  be  like  these 
blood-red  flowers.  There  is  somethimr  war- 

O 

like  even  in  the  smell  of  them,  coming  hot 
and  sweet  through  the  summer  air.  So,  too, 
this  soft,  faded  flower,  on  the  other  hand, 
recalls  and  embodies  a  cradle-hymn.  It  is 
sweet  as  mother's  love,  softly  pale  as  the 
mother's  cheek  where  baby  fingers  so  love 
to  wander.  Now  Gloire  de  Dijon  tangles 
you  in  her  largess  of  creamy-hearted  bloom. 


125 

The  breath  of  it  is  like  incense — penetrant, 
intoxicating,  subtly  sweet.  It  brings  all  the 
vivid  languors  of  a  waltz.  You  see  the  flow- 
er drooping  from  beauty's  hair  against  beau- 
ty's breast,  and  there  steals  over  and  through 
you  -the  spell  of  rhythmic  motion.  Some- 
how it  changes  to  a  bridal  chant — a  choral 
throbbing  with  hope  and  love. 

Ah !  here  is  the  reason  of  it — this  Lamarque, 
whose  matted  mound  of  prickly  green  holds 
up  to  the  sunlight  five  hundred  pure  white 
roses.  The  fairy  queen  herself  must  have 
sat  there  last  night.  Nowhere  else  are  the 
dew  pearls  so  large,  so  lucent,  so  thickly 
sown.  The  tiniest  leaf -point  is  agleam ; 
every  blossom  hangs  its  bead  ;  while  a  sing- 
ing bird,  hid  in  its  green  depths,  seems  to 
say  aloud,  "  Happy  is  the  bride  that  the  sun 
shines  on."  Then  must  this  bride  of  roses 
be  blessed  indeed !  Overhead  all  is  clear 
shining ;  the  wind  sits  in  the  south,  and 
barely  stirs  the  leaves.  All  day — for  many 
days— there  will  be  golden  weather.  Long 
ere  it  is  ended  moss-roses  will  be  ablossom. 
Sweet  as  they  are  modest,  they  flower  but  in 
high  summer.  The  very  breath  of  it  wells 
up  from  their  deep  hearts.  The  angel  who 
made  gift  of  moss  in  return  for  grateful 
shade  must  have  added,  too,  the  perfume  of 


126 


a  good  deed.  It  is  one  of  nature's  harmo- 
nies, where  form  is  allied  to  color, 

"Like  perfect  music  unto  noble  words." 

Whoso  shall  fitly  voice  it  will  stand  forth 
acknowledged  of  his  fellows  poet  by  right 
divine. 

This  flower,  so  darkly  crimson  it  is  black 
in  shadow,  is  a  new  Inferno,  full  of  the  pain 
and  passion  of  lost  souls.  Close  at  hand 
you  see  a  big,  blowzy,  red-and-white  blos- 
som ;  ungraceful — flaunting — it  may  be,  yet, 
for  all  that,  a  flower  of  peace  — one  of  Eng- 
land's "blended  roses  bought  so  dear."  It 
takes  you  back  to  Queen  Bess,  in  whose 
coronation  pageant  there  came  images  of 
"her  Majestie's  grandmother,  of  York,  in 
a  fayre  white  rose,  her  Majestie's  grandsire, 
of  Lancaster,  in  one  all  royal  red,  and  her 
Majestie's  self,  in  one  strip't  red  and  white." 
Here  be  monthly  roses,  love  songs  one  and 
all,  pink  persistent  glories  beset  with  many 
thorns.  .  Cinnamon  roses,  too.  And  what 
artist  shall  so  paint  for  you  farm-house  gar- 
dens and  quaint,  deep  door-yards,  or  coun- 
try churches  with  simple  folk  trooping  in 
on  Sunday  mornings  ?  The  breath  comes 
clean  and  sweet  and  uplifting.  Care  steps 
away.  You  stand  open-eyed,  at  peace  with 


I27 

life,  with  the  world,  with  your  fellow-men, 
and  your  sore  heart  echoes,  with  no  mocking 
strain, 

"Praise  God,  from  whom  all  blessings  flow." 


GHOST- LAND 


)T  is  wrought  out  of  the  tragedy 
of  transition.  What  so  fair  as 
this  wooded,  swelling  hill-top 
in  its  first  estate  ?  The  good 
greenwood  —  so  lush,  so  tall, 
so  full  of  magic,  of  mystery — covered  all  the 
face  of  it.  Here  oak  held  up  its  cloud-com- 
pelling height ;  here  beech  dripped  rain  of 
sunshine  through  its  fine,  swaying  leaves ; 
winds  sighed  them  asleep  in  the  poplar's 
rocking  breast,  or  went,  spent  with  sighing, 
to  the  lowland  from  the  walnut's  lacy 
boughs. 

Below,  the  river  ran  wide  and  dark.  Half 
way  the  long  slope  a  little  spring  broke  out, 
tinkled  down  a  fairy  waterfall  over  lime- 
stone ledges,  betwixt  cushions  of  thick  moss. 
Wood  flowers — the  shyest,  the  rarest — crept 
up  to  laugh  with  the  babbling  runnel. 
Goldy-locks  wept  there  her  sunlit  showers; 
lady-slipper  too,  finer  than  fairy  foot  e'er 
trod,  mats  of  white  violet,  purple  larkspur 


I29 


lances,  the  fine,  white,  filamented  stars  of 
woodland  lilies  each  in  its  hour  of  blossom 
lit  up  this  sylvan  shade. 

What  birds  sang  over  them  through  days 
and  nights  of  June  !  What  dews  distilled  ! 
What  rain  fell  soft  out  of  heaven !  What  sun- 
rise rose  red  beyond  the  river  !  What  magic 
the  moon  wrought  when  mists  came  up  from 
the  water  to  lave  the  thirsty  leaves  ! 

The  friendly  water  !  Always  the  voice  of 
it — booming,  babbling,  laughing  down  the 
ripples — thrilled  through  leaf  and  bough  to 
the  woods'  deep  heart.  It  sang  promise, 
prophecy— promise  of  rain  in  season,  proph- 
ecy of  long  days  to  fill  up  the  tale  of  years, 
lead  on  to  green  old  age. 

The  friendly,  fickle  water !  Still  it  races 
to  the  sea— leaping,  laughing,  singing  aloud 
the  old,  old  song  of  hope  and  peace.  Still 
it  sparkles  in  sunshine,  plays  in  the  dancing 
eddies;  though  all  the  trees  stand  ghostly 
bare  of  leaf,  of  bark,  of  bough.  The  spring's 
roiled  tribute  drips  slow  to  its  gliding  breast. 
Fire  has  burned  out  the  green  life  of  moss 
and  fern.  Here  and  there  some  constant 
flower  upthrusts  from  a  cleft  root — a  maid- 
en mourning  on  the  field  of  fight  where  her 
green,  tall  lover  stands  stark  and  dead. 

The  hill -top  has  been  deadened  over. 
9 


130 

All  the  young,  small  growth  had  the  axe 
laid  at  root.  About  the  great  trees  it  traced 
only  the  ring  of  death— chipped  broadly 
away  the  thick  bark  to  leave  a  ghastly  glar- 
ing belt.  First  the  brave  tree  laughed  it  to 
scorn.  His  root  ran  strong  with  sap;  his 
heart  was  all  untouched.  He  decked  him 
in  all  his  bravery  of  tassel  and  bud  and  leaf, 
and  laughed  a  welcome  to  summer.  And 
all  his  new  leaves  grew  broad  ;  the  wind  sang 
through  ;  birds  nested  in  their  shelter ;  he 
nodded  to  his  next  neighbor,  "Ah  ha!  ah 
ha  !  Those  pigmies  down  below,  girding  at 
us  with  their  steels — see  how  well  fooled 
they  are  !  They  shall  have  labor  for  their 
pains." 

"  Verily,"  nodded  the  neighbor — yet  some- 
how his  leaves  hung  all  adroop.  A  shrill- 
ing sigh  ran  through  them — the  south  wind 
calling  them  to  play.  A  frolic  wind,  keen 
and  hot  from  the  lowlands,  a  miser  of  moist- 
ure, drinking  wherever  he  might  the  dew, 
the  juice,  the  life.  All  day  he  blew  out  of 
a  shadowless  sky.  Night  found  the  poor 
trees  without  voice  or  motion,  save  the 
hoarse,  cracked  rustle  of  stiffened  leaf- 
bough.  In  dew,  in  silence,  it  bewept  them. 
The  wise  Night  knew,  all  too  well,  for  them 
there  was  no  resurrection  through  tears. 


Nor  any  ever  save  through  transmuta- 
tion. See  how  it  hath  conspired  with  the 
rain  and  the  fine  weather — with  the  hail, 
the  snow,  the  sleet,  the  fire — to  melt  them, 
resolve  into  their  original  elements  these 
spectres  of  dead  greenwood.  Through  years 
the  band  hath  wrought.  The  great  trunks 
stand  aglisten,  bare  and  white,  with  never  a 
hint  that  here  so  late  they  ruffled  it,  aflaunt 
with  summer  greenery,  amask  with  winter's 
gemmy  boughs. 

Their  tangle  of  tall  shadow  drops  down 
upon  the  earth,  makes  the  sunshine  palely 
spectral  for  all  its  summer  strength.  What 
black,  black  earth  !  Through  fire  it  has 
gained  all  the  waning  trees  have  lost.  As 
the  gentle  conspirators  flung  down  bough 
or  trunl:,  a  great  heap  blazed  on  the  hill- 
side, or  smouldered  to  coals  and  ashes. 
Ploughs  have  scattered,  not  hidden,  them. 
They  crunch  underfoot  at  each  step  on  the 
ghost-land.  Well  called,  is  it  not,  spite  of 
its  tall,  green  corn,  with  golden  tassels  so 
high  above  your  head  ?  Long  ribbons  of 
leaf  droop,  locking  across  the  rows.  A 
man  can  but  just  well  reach  the  yellow  and 
crimson  silks  that  a  little  later  shall  be 
bursting  ears.  The  wind  chants  through 
it  an  organ-peal  to  waft  away  to  the  far,  far- 


132 


ther  hill  the  sweet  heavy  breath,  the  golden 
dust  of  tassels. 

When  storms  sweep  all  the  river's  trend, 
what  grumble  of  thunder,  what  singing  of 
winds  here  in  these  dead,  tall  ranks  !  No 
more  may  they  bend  and  rock  before  it. 
Stark  stiff,  they  must  stand — or  fall  to  rise 
only  in  new  growth.  Who  knows  if  they 
sigh  not  for  some  pitiful  hurricane  to  sweep 
down  all  their  ranks  in  one  sudden  mercy 
of  ruin?  But  no!  This  Old  Guard  dies. 
Never  wilfully  shall  it  surrender  space  and 
roothold  on  this  our  earth.  There  is  brave 
defiance  in  each  upstanding  stem.  See  how 
they  have  stripped  them  of  cumbering  bark, 
and  stand  in  armor  of  steel  against  the 
powers  of  the  air,  the  gnawing  tooth  of  time. 

A  brave  fight,  truly  —  lost  from  the  be- 
ginning. Man,  the  conqueror,  is  driven  of 
hunger,  no  less  than  the  lust  of  land.  Year 
by  year  the  ranks  shall  thin,  the  plough 
speed  more  unchecked,  the  woodland  spring 
shrink  to  a  thread,  vanish  quite  away. 
Wheat  shall  laugh  here  unto  yellow  har- 
vest, clover  bescent  the  air,  grass  bourgeon 
tall,  and  cattle  low  all  over  this,  one  of  the 
thousand  hills. 

And  the  river  shall  ripple,  ripple — boom- 
ing at  spring's  flood-tide,  laughing  low  over 


133 

the  rising  bar  —  to  flout  sleepy  summer 
winds.  Why  shall  it  not  rejoice  ?  Out  of 
the  eater  hath  come  forth  meat,  and  corn, 
and  wine,  and  oil  of  gladness ;  out  of  the 
strong  sweetness  indeed — of  love,  of  life,  of 
hopeful  endeavor.  What  though  the  wild- 
wood  flowers  be  ghosts,  the  \vood-birds  van- 
ished, the  Dryads  fled  —  yonder,  in  clear 
sunshine,  a  garden  lies  abloom,  a  voice  as 
from  heaven  sings  low  a  cradle-song. 


HORSE  AND  AWAY 


;WAKE,  O  sluggard  !  The  cock 
crows  clear  for  dawn  ;  the  cool 
black  darkness  pales  to  tender 
gray.  Saddle ;  mount  upon 
the  instant ;  shake  free  rein 
and  stirrup  and  tossing  mane,  then  away  as 
the  arrow  from  bended  bow. 

The  creek  lies  a  mile  ahead.  Down, 
down  you  go  —  a  long,  gentle  slope,  from 
whose  sparse  flints  the  hoofs  strike  fire. 
Truly  it  is  breath  of  life  you  draw  in  this 
rush  through  dew-fresh  air.  A  fair  world, 
indeed,  smiles  up  from  either  hand,  but  you 
have  no  eye,  no  thought,  for  it. 

The  thrilling,  breathless  motion  wraps 
you  away  from  other  sense.  Till  the  long 
incline  is  covered  and  you  draw  rein  at  the 
creek,  you  look  not  at  wood  or  field,  or  the 
east  faintly  mottled  with  rose,  or  the  blue- 
gray  overhead,  wherein  pale  stars  fight  still 
a  losing  battle  with  the  day. 

The    mirroring    stream    makes    of   them 


135 

points  of  white  fire  in  a  magic  underworld. 
How  fair  the  slippery  water  above  its  bed 
of  bare  rock  or  smooth  pebbles !  Here  at 
the  ford  it  runs  arrow-swift,  scarce  fetlock 
deep.  Black  Princess  paws  it  daintily  with 
impatient  hoof,  till  all  the  stream  is  roiled. 
Trifle,  the  chestnut,  will  none  of  that.  Whirl- 
ing swift  about,  she  plunges  mid-stream  up- 
current  from  her  stable-mate,  as  though  to 
say,  "  I  drink  always  at  the  fountain-head." 
Royal  blood  often  carries  whimsies.  Hers 
is  of  the  bluest — 

"  She  can  trace  her  lineage  higher 
Than  the  Bourbon  dare  aspire. 
Douglas,  Guzman,  or  the  Guelph — 
Or  O'Brien's  blood  itself." 

She  has  all  the  marks  of  royal  lineage. 
Note  her  fine,  thin  crest,  her  silken  coat,  her 
limpid  eyes  so  full  of  intelligent  fire,  her 
flat,  clean  legs,  whose  muscles  stand  out 
like  whip-cords  with  never  a  trace  of  fring- 
ing hair. 

What  feet  are  hers,  too— small,  firm,  un- 
erring !  Her  skimming  gallop  is  as  the 
flight  of  a  bird,  her  leap  a  veritable  soar. 
It  is  a  deep  drain  or  tall  timber  that  stops 
her.  Besides,  she  has  the  Arab's  endur- 
ance. Turn  her  upon  grass  after  a  hard 


136 

day's  run,  she  frisks  and  caracoles  like  a 
colt  at  play. 

Princess  may  be  —  nay,  is — the  better 
weight-carrier.  She  is  heavier,  stouter,  too 
powerful  indeed  for  symmetry.  Yet  you 
shall  ride  all  day — many  days — before  you 
find  cattle  to  outmatch  the  pair  whose 
heads  are  now  turned  up-stream  to  the  bath- 
ing-pool. 

Nature,  our  mother,  builded  it,  with  Chance 
for  her  architect.  Fifty  years  ago  a  huge 
dead  tree-trunk  fell  slantwise  athwart  the 
stream.  Drift  silt,  gravel,  bedded  it  so  firm- 
ly in  place  that  now  a  bar  makes  across  the 
channel,  holding  the  laughing  waters  still 
and  clear  in  a  pool  breast-deep  above  it. 

Well  may  the  water  be  clear  as  new  sun- 
rays,  cool  as  the  dawn.  It  comes  from  the 
springs  bubbling  out  at  foot  of  big  gray 
bluffs.  This  narrow  valley  is  veined  and 
threaded  with  them.  Each  pellucid  wave- 
let is  yet  surcharged  with  the  vital  force 
drawn  from  Earth,  the  great  mother. 

How  they  leap  and  dance  up-stream 
through  the  flumes  of  blue-gray  stone,  hast- 
ing, hasting  to  this  smooth  reach  of  bright 
water,  from  out  whose  clear-shining  engird- 
ling trees  and  rock  and  shrubs  laugh  back 
to  you,  as  real  as  this  upper  world.  At  last 


137 

it  tires  of  playing  the  painter,  and  ripples 
merrily  away,  a  fairy  cascade,  over  the  dam 
of  Nature's  building. 

The  pool  lies  in  green  gloom.  A  huge 
bending  sycamore  leans  far  over  it.  Ash, 
maple,  locust,  elm,  rise  column-wise  about 
it.  A  little  farther,  and  you  come  to  rank 
upon  rank  of  oak,  hickory,  walnut,  all  atangle 
at  foot  with  hawthorn,  iron-wood,  crab-apple. 
The  farther  bank  is  matted  with  shrub- 
cottonwood,  that  is  tufted  with  round,  white 
flowers.  This  side  a  reach  of  bare,  flat 
stone  juts  out  into  the  water,  still  warm 
with  the  sun  of  yesterday,  despite  the  cool 
night-dews. 

Stepping-stones,  flat  and  smooth,  lead 
down  to  it  from  the  bath-house.  That  was, 
three  hundred  years  ago,  a  smart  young 
white-oak,  the  vigorous  pioneer  of  what  was 
still  a  prairie  world.  Time  brought  it  age 
and  girth.  A  hollow  came  at  the  foot — ran 
up  through  the  towering  frame.  The  tree 
became  a  living  shell,  hiding  a  body  of 
death.  By  and  by  bees  found  it — the  hol- 
low became  a  chamber  of  sweets.  A  dark 
bee -hunter  found  the  hoard,  and  set  his 
mark  upon  the  tree.  A  little  later  a  rival 
hunter  discovered  it,  stole  the  honey,  and 
sought  to  conceal  the  theft  with  fire. 


138 

Kindled  in  the  hollow  root,  it  roared  up- 
wards like  a  furnace.  All  the  huge  top  fell 
— rent  and  riven  as  it  touched  the  earth. 
Part  of  the  stout  shell  defied  the  flame,  and 
stands— blackened,  leafless,  branchless — an 
obelisk  of  ruin. 

Through  a  hollow  in  its  base  you  may 
walk  upright.  A  rough  blanket  curtains  it. 
Within  you  find  a  locker  with  great  store 
of  towels  and  bathing-sheets.  Wrap  you 
quickly  in  one,  and  run,  barefoot,  to  the  pool,, 
there  to  plunge  and  lave  you  to  your  soul 
and  body's  content. 

Wade,  float,  splash.  The  pool  at  its  deep- 
est comes  but  well  under  your  chin.  There 
you  may  drop  all  hampering  vesture,  to 
clothe  yourself  luxuriously  with  water.  Ah ! 
the  creamy,  thrilling  chill  of  it.  Involunta- 
rily you  laugh  aloud,  flinging  handfuls  of 
diamond  drops  high  above  your  head  that 
the  filtering  sun-rays  may  turn  them  all  to 
rainbow-;. 

Vagrant  rays  are  they,  dripping  in  through 
the  bank's  thick  leafage.  But  overhead  you 
see  the  sky.  Behold !  there,  too,  is  a  rain- 
bow— vivid,  yet  broken  against  scurrying 
clouds  that  chase  one  the  other  out  of  a 
darkening  west.  What  saith  the  weather- 
prophet — 


139 

"  Rainbow  at  morning, 
Shepherds  take  warning." 

There  will  be  foul  weather  ere  sunset. 
The  wind  proclaims  it,  blowing  in  low,  sob- 
bing gasps,  with  breathless  spaces  between. 
In  the  far  empyrean  warring  hurricanes  are 
marshalling  their  legion  clouds.  Under 
them  a  belt  of  air  lies,  absolutely  stirless. 
There  is  never  a  wave  amid  its  faint  white 
cirrus  lines.  This  fitful  wind  goes  barely 
so  high  as  the  tallest  tree-tops.  And  still 
the  sun  shines. 

Not  wan  and  watery,  but  with  all  his 
golden  strength.  The  warmth,  the  bright- 
ness of  him,  befool  one  brave  red-breast  to 
pipe  his  fair-weather  song.  Or  was  it,  in- 
deed, some  belated  Dryad,  or  gnome,  or  elf, 
overtaken  by  the  dawn,  and  winging  now 
away  to  shelter  in  the  wood's  dark,  peace- 
ful deeps  ?  Truly,  the  note  is  heavenly — 
round,  full,  wildly  sweet.  Eerie  almost  in 
this  brooding  hush,  through  which  you  smell 
now  the  subtile  fragrance  of  new  rain  fall- 
ing a  mile  beyond. 

Reclothe  you,  and  climb  the  farther  hill. 
From  its  top  see  the  long,  slant,  silver  lines 
sweeping  up  the  clear  valley.  The  road 
runs  wide  and  level,  straight  into  the  heart 
of  the  rain.  Breathe  the  cattle  a  minute — 


140 

then  away,  away,  as  though  Death  lay  be- 
hind, Paradise  before. 

Away  !  away  !  The  air  sings  in  your  ears  ; 
wide  fields  reel  past;  the  hedge-row  trees 
show  tall,  green  -  sheeted  ghosts.  Horse 
and  rider  are  at  one — drunken  with  wine 
o'  the  morning.  Trifle's  pink  nostrils  are 
aflame.  She  snuffs  the  breeze,  lays  her 
small  ears  back,  and,  with  a  low,  exultant 
whinny,  leaves  Princess  a  length  behind. 

For  the  wink  of  your  eyelid  only.  The 
black  mare  is  at  her  quarter — her  girth — her 
shoulder;  the  dark  crest  flashes  past  the 
bright  one ;  two  pairs  of  eyes  gleam  with 
emulous  fire. 

Neck  and  neck,  with  spurning  hoofs,  with 
straining  muscles,  in  the  wild,  electric  rush 
of  generous  blood,  they  cleave  the  rain-wall, 
heedless  alike  of  thunder  pealing  overhead, 
of  lightning  flaring  yellow  and  spectral  on 
the  earth  at  foot.  Ever  and  anon  a  flying 
hoof  is  tipped  with  fire.  Truly,  blood  tells 
— and  no  dead  giant  of  all  their  famous 
line  ran  ever  a  gallanter  race. 

What  drops  fall  so  fast  out  of  this  rainy 
heaven !  So  big,  so  bright,  softly  warm  as 
a  dream  of  summer.  The  kiss  of  them,  as 
they  pelt  you  and  patter,  is  something  for 
glad  remembrance  all  the  days  of  your  life. 


14 1 

For  one  brief  minute  it  endures — then  the 
good  beasts  have  borne  you  into  the  clear 
shining  beyond. 

From  this  high  hill  of  vantage  you  see 
a  dozen  showers,  with  sunlight  laughing 
through,  chasing  one  the  other  across  this 
green,  good  world.  But  little  reck  you  of 
shower  or  shining.  You  ride  as  for  life, 
your  blood  at  racing  pace,  your  nerves 
athrill,  tingling  to  your  finger -tips,  crying 
out  exultant  as  your  speed  outstrips  the  lan- 
guid wind. 

Five  miles  of  it  —  then  the  road  runs 
downhill.  You  need  barely  draw  rein — the 
soft,  wet  clay  is  sure  footing  and  safe.  Now 
you  splash  through  the  creek,  and  go  more 
soberly  along  the  wood  road — a  vista  of 
shadows — 

"  Lovely,  lonesome,  cool,  and  green." 

It  runs  away  from  Fairyland.  There  is 
the  home  gate,  looming  dark  and  dripping. 
Beyond  it  lie  corn,  and  cattle,  and  men  at 
work  in  tHe  fields.  You  pass  through,  and 
find  you  again  in  the  world  of  every-day. 


AUGUST  LILIES 


garden  blossoms  they,  but 
creatures  of  field  and  wood. 
Leave  the  level  lowlands,  so 
burdened  with  summer's  lar- 
gess of  grain  and  fruit,  and 
ride  into  the  hill-country.  The  narrow  red 
road  winds  betwixt  quaint,  ragged  fields,  all 
whose  fences  are  bedraped  with  vine  and 
brier.  Here  and  there  you  see  log-houses, 
with  big  outside  chimneys  all  overgrown 
with  the  scarlet  trumpet-vine.  Down  be- 
tween the  hills  spring -fed  runnels  make 
sparkling  threads  of  silver.  In  the  nar- 
row levels  on  either  hand  the  hill  -  folk 
raise  their  scant  crops.  The  hill  sides, 
cleared  for  fire  and  fencing,  have  been  cul- 
tivated until  the  soil  is  gone.  Now  they 
gleam  red  and  bare  in  spots,  seamed  with 
deep  gullies,  and  sparsely  beset  with  wild 
growths.  In  betwixt  the  clumps  you  see 
lilies  by  thousands.  How  they  live,  what 
sustenance  they  find  in  the  stiff  clay,  is 


143 

one  of  Nature's  kindly  mysteries.  But  there 
they  stand  and  grow  and  blow.  Year  by 
year  the  carpet  of  yellow-green  fans  spreads 
farther  and  farther,  and  sends  up  new  blos- 
som-tipped lances  to  put  the  ogre  Barren- 
ness to  flight.  Where  the  road  dips,  look 
up  on  either  hand.  Saw  you  ever  aught 
more  enheartening  than  this  springing  of 
fresh  beauty  from  desolation  ?  It  is  an 
army  of  hope.  Its  banners  are  orange 
flecked  with  scarlet.  Mark  how  lithely 
they  bend  and  sway  in  summer's  sweetest 
wind!  One  small,  six -cleft  cup  would  go 
quite  unnoticed.  Here,  in  serried  ranks, 
thousand  upon  thousand,  they  spread  a 
glory  of  sun  and  summer  over  the  waste 
places  of  the  land.  Leave  them  ungath- 
ered ,  they  are  creatures  wholly  of  the  open. 
Besides,  they  yield  fruit  after  their  kind — 
a  sort  of  glistening  berry  —  that  in  winter 
keeps  many  a  wild  thing  from  hunger. 

Come  away  to  the  woods.  They  are 
green  and  thick  and  deeply  shadowed,  with 
damp  black  earth  at  foot.  Winter  and  spring 
it  is  a  quaking  bog,  where  you  might  sink 
at  any  incautious  step.  Now  you  may  go, 
free  and  fearless,  to  its  very  heart,  and  fling 
yourself  down  upon  a  moss  carpet  where 
the  foot  sinks  out  of  sight.  A  little  way 


144 


off  is  a  clear,  stagnant  pool ;  a  red-bird  flut- 
ters in  the  shallow  of  it,  two  squirrels  come 
down  to  drink,  and  all  about  in  the  soft 
margin  you  see  the  footmarks  of  all  man- 
ner of  woodland  creatures  that  slake  their 
thirst  with  these  bitter  waters.  The  pool 
lies,  a  cairngorm  mirror  framed  in  ebony 
and  emerald.  The  water  of  it  drains  through 
fallen  oak  leaves  and  oak  roots,  and  takes  on 
a  translucent  brown.  At  one  edge  stand  two 
or  three  big  trees  that  the  stagnant  water 
has  killed.  Their  branches  have  dropped, 
leaving  columnar  trunks  that  the  climb- 
ing poison-ivy  has  covered  to  the  topmost 
point.  Was  ever  aught  fairer  than  this  life 
embracing  death  ?  Overhead  the  straight 
sun-rays  stream  down,  and  are  tossed  back 
in  golden  shimmers  from  the  flashing  water 
to  play  hide-and-seek  in  the  intimate  green- 
ery of  the  vines.  All  is  still — so  still !  A 
ruby -throat  flashes  out  from  among  the 
green  columns.  Your  eye  follows.  He  is 
poised  on  dazzling  wings  before  something 
white  and  slender  and  lightly  waving  in  one 
of  the  dark  forest  aisles.  This  wet  wood- 
land is  free  of  undergrowth.  You  run  after 
the  bright  bird,  and  find  the  fair  lily  of  the 
woods,  treasure  -  trove  only  of  true  sylvan 
solitudes. 


145 

What  a  contrast  to  the  starred  hill  flower ! 
What  thick-fleshed  dark  green  leaves,  fairly 
palpitant  with  sap  !  What  sturdy,  stately 
stalks !  What  breath  of  balm  from  the  still 
dewy  heart !  Science  will  tell  you  this  is 
no  lily  •  a  trillium,  wise  folk  call  it.  Within 
her  star  of  narrow  outer  petals  the  blossom 
spreads,  a  six-sided  cup  of  thinnest,  most 
flawless  pearl,  full  of  gold-tipped  stamens, 
and  with  a  drop  of  clear  honey  oozing  from 
the  pale  green  heart.  Ruby-throat  sips  with 
pure  delight,  and  goes  away  with  a  gold  pow- 
dering upon  his  green  glistening  coat.  A 
drowsy  humblebee  comes  after  him.  Though 
she  blossom  so  apart,  the  woodland  queen 
never  lacks  for  wooers.  How  should  she, 
indeed,  when  all  the  air  is  heavy  with  her 
breath,  when  each  breeze  that  kisses  her 
perforce  whispers  the  sweet  secret  to  all 
other  winged  things  ?  A  rare  blue  butter- 
fly floats  in  after  Master  Humblebee.  He 
would  be  worth  many  times  his  weight  in 
silver  to  an  enthusiastic  collector.  It  is 
only  in  such  environment  that  you  ever  find 
him,  and  even  here  rarely  once  in  the  year 
His  wings  must  be  quite  four  inches  across; 
dull  silver  underneath  ;  on  top,  a  velvety 
silver  blue,  with  spots  of  pearl  and  scarlet ; 
and  in  the  centre  a  big  blur  of  darker  blue. 
10 


146 

Gather  a  stalk  or  two  of  lilies,  enough  to 
satisfy  the  lust  of  possession.  Possibly  they 
will  revive  after  the  outing  is  over,  particu- 
larly if  you  bind  them  with  damp  moss  and 
leaves. 

Curiously  this  marshy  wood  lies  atop  the 
hill  country.  Go  across  it  another  way — 
through  lanes,  and  along  bridle-paths,  skirt- 
ing some  babbling  stream.  Now  the  road 
climbs  sharply,  then  dips  to  a  huge  pond. 
There  is  a  crossway  track  through  it,  where 
the  water  is  barely  ankle-deep.  Either  side 
it  would  swim  man  or  horse,  if  swimming 
were  not  impossible  for  the  rank  growth 
eddying  and  surging  through  it.  Mark  the 
huge  round  leaves,  as  big  as  a  small  um- 
brella each,  with  stems  thicker  than  your 
finger.  They  cover  the  face  of  the  water, 
and  run  riot  over  it.  What  tangle  and 
cable  of  stems  must  be  hidden  in  its  murk ! 
The  wreathen  carpet  of  green  bosses  is  all 
starred  with  flowers  —  cream -white,  many- 
petaled,  with  a  fleshy  golden  disk  for  heart. 
It  is  the  yellow  lotus,  lovelier  even  than 
Egypt's  own  flower.  A  perfect  blossom, 
with  the  width  of  your  two  hands.  They 
are  sun -flowers,  if  they  do  not  claim  kin- 
ship with  the  Sphinx.  His  first  beams  fall 
on  their  opened  hearts ;  his  last  see  them 


147 


drowsily  folded.  Here,  in  its  own  place, 
queening  it  over  the  rocking  leaves,  with 
the  setting  of  field  and  sky,  what  so  mag- 
nificent ?  Is  it  not  well  worth  a  day's  ride 
to  see  breadths  of  such  bloom  ?  There  is 
no  crowding.  Each  royal  blossom  is  set  in 
its  own  sufficient  green  space.  Yet  you 
take  away  the  sense  of  a  tossing  sea  of 
leaves,  with  foam  of  cream -white  flowers 
cresting  each  wave  of  it.  By  and  by,  when 
the  frost  comes,  the  flower- hearts  will  be 
round  capsules  set  all  over  with  sweetish, 
oval,  nutty  seed.  That  is  what  gives  it  the 
name  of  water  chincapin.  Cut  a  generous 
sheaf  of  blossoms — you  will  never  break  the 
tough  stems — then  thank  God  that  it  seems 
good  to  Him  to  make  lilies  of  the  field,  the 
wood,  the  water. 


THROUGH   FIELDS  AFLOWER 


,O  in  the  full  sunshine.  Theirs 
is  not  a  beauty  that  needs  the 
glamour  of  dawn  and  dew. 
Through  the  long  days  of  high 
summer  earth  has  drunk  sun- 
shine and  steeped  herself  in  vital  force.  Now 
she  gives  it  back  tenfold.  All  her  waysides, 
her  waste  places,  are  flushed  and  gilded. 
Purple  and  scarlet  and  yellow  run  riot  all 
over  her  face.  Stubble  is  sown  thick  with 
tall  stalks  of  evening- primrose  —  so  thick, 
indeed,  that  the  fine  pale  blossoms  gleam 
starwise  over  its  green  breadth  of  weeds. 
And  what  sweetness  wells  up  from  their 
powdery  hearts  !  —  a  heavy,  clinging  fra- 
grance that  makes  of  the  languid  breeze  the 
wafts  of  a  censer.  Each  flower,  too,  uplifts 
a  golden  cross,  as  though  Nature's  priest, 
duly  anointed  to  shrive  the  dying  Summer  ! 
For  she  is  dying,  though  her  doom  is  writ 
in  flowers.  True,  the  rose  remains,  and  lag- 
gard lilies  linger  in  garden  nooks.  But  here 


149 

in  the  hedge-row  the  craven  milk-weed,  six 
weeks  past  blossom,  flings  a  silky  flag  of 
truce  to  the  coming  conqueror  Autumn. 
And  all  about  hill-slope,  pasture,  and  way- 
side wall  golden-rod  shimmers  in  masses  of 
brazen  yellow.  Humblebees  love  it  beyond 
all  other  flowers.  Indeed,  it  is  in  some  sort 
manna  in  the  August  desert  to  all  winged 
things.  Tiny  butterflies,  white  and  yellow, 
haunt  and  hover  about  it  in  fluttering  clouds. 
Honey-bees  and  the  curious  wood -wasps 
grow  drunken  upon  its  sweets.  All  day  they 
cling,  drowsing  deliciously,  to  its  blossom- 
ing plumes.  Night  even  does  not  always 
sober  them,  though  it  bring  dew  heavier 
than  a  summer  shower. 

Leave  them  undisturbed.  A  little  while, 
and  their  lotus-eating  must  end.  There  are 
tenantless  sprays  aplenty  to  make  a  sheaf 
in  which  you  may  set  the  iron-weed's  umbel 
of  richest  purple.  Surely  Tyre's  own  hue 
did  not  rival  it.  The  law  of  compensation 
runs  through  all  of  nature's  works.  The 
primrose,  dying  in  daylight,  yet  perfumes  a 
waking  world.  And  this  rough,  weedy  stalk 
waves  high  above  your  head  a  crown  for 
which  "  royal  "  is  all  too  poor  a  word.  And 
what  prince  of  Holy  Church  ever  outglowed 
the  cardinal-flower,  now  gleaming  in  slender 


I5Q 

scarlet  beauty  in  the  swales  and  along  the 
runnels!  In  good  neighborhood  you  find 
dittany,  once  sacred  to  Venus,  and  still  ac- 
counted a  potent  philter  by  some  simple 
folk  who  surely  should  know  better.  If 
there  is  magic,  it  must  lie  in  the  smell.  The 
flower  is  minute,  an  ugly  reddish-purple,  and 
the  reddish  stalks  and  yellow-green  leaves 
rarely  grow  higher  than  your  hand.  In  the 
moist  places,  too,  you  find  clematis,  trailing 
drifts  of  green-white  stars  over  whatever  is 
within  reach.  No  wonder  it  climbs  and 
clings !  Each  leaf  stalk  is  a  tendril  ready 
to  lay  hold  of  the  smallest  coign  of  vantage. 
No  wonder,  either,  that  it  so  covers  the  face 
of  earth  !  Its  seed  is  legion.  Even  now  the 
first  blossoming  has  changed  to  green  feath- 
ery sprays  that  at  the  touch  of  frost  will 
launch  by  tens  of  thousands  their  winged 
argosies. 

Here  be  vagrants,  stolen  from  prim  gar- 
den-beds, and  laughing  in  light  over  their 
freedom.  All  this  fence  corner  is  crowded 
with  tall  pink  rocket.  The  rosy  panicles 
nod  saucily  amid  the  tangle  of  wild  grape 
and  brier.  What  scent  they  have,  what  col- 
or, what  robust  richness  of  crowded  bloom  . 
A  little  way  farther  you  find  poppies — a  rank 
cluster,  white,  drooping,  thick -fringed — ex- 


haling  the  very  breath  of  slumber  from  their 
deeply  hidden  hearts.  Years  ago  a  chance 
seed  lodged  in  the  root  of  a  huge  stump.  It 
grew  up,  blossomed,  and  bore  seed  after  its 
kind.  It  fell  on  good  ground  and  safe,  and 
now  the  mouldering  wood  is  each  summer  a 
mound  of  white  blossoms.  A  little  later  the 
gatherer  of  simples  will  come  and  cut  pop- 
py-heads to  dry  and  mix  through  her  hop 
pillows,  that  are  the  sov'reignest  thing  on 
earth  for  wakeful  souls.  If  she  leaves  but 
one  there  will  still  be  a  plentiful  sowing  for 
next  year's  flowers. 

In  number  as  the  sands  of  the  sea,  in  dif- 
ference as  the  stars  of  the  sky,  the  aster 
spreads  her  milky-way  of  blossom  over  field 
and  wood  and  highway  and  hedge -row. 
Here  a  tall  clump  waves  its  rims  of  purple 
and  hearts  of  gold  defiantly  above  your 
head ;  there  a  thousand  small  white  sprays 
cover  the  earth  at  your  feet.  Between,  each 
note  of  color,  each  gradation  of  size.  If  one 
star  differeth  from  another  in  glory,  how 
much  more  one  star-flower !  Small  or  great, 
they  bloom  and  bourgeon,  and  in  large  part 
make  up  the  glory  of  "  the  happy  autumn 
fields  " — gorgeous  autumn,  whose  harbinger 
and  sign -manual  is  burned  in  yellow  and 
red  on  this  green  late-summer  world.  See 


152 

that  branching  road- side  walnut.  All  its 
leaves  are  pale  gold.  So  many  strew  the 
earth  beneath  that  you  see  the  tracery  of 
trunk  and  boughs.  The  more  clearly  that 
poison-ivy  clothes  them  as  with  a  garment, 
and  all  its  leaves  are  the  fine  ruby  crimson 
that  some  mystics  make  the  true  color  of 
life.  One  who  is  fanciful  might  look,  and 
easily  persuade  him  that  he  saw  here  a  soul 
of  fire  burning  through  a  golden  shell. 
Blackbirds,  though,  have  no  eyrie  fairer.  A 
full  hundred  of  them  perch  amid  the  red 
and  yellow,  and  shatter  the  sweet  silence 
with  jarring  cries.  They  know,  these  small 
creatures,  that  growth  is  past,  fruition  at 
hand.  Before  the  garnering  is  ended  they 
will  wing  away,  nor  be  seen  again  till  a  new 
summer  shall  blush  along  the  hills. 


WHAT   SAITH   SEPTEMBER? 


FAIR  month,  truly  —  golden 
fair,  spiced  with  breath  of  the 
orchards,  the  vineyards'  winy 
smell.  Now  springing  root, 
now  swelling  bud,  now  waking 
seed,  make  answer  for  the  ten  talents,  the 
five,  the  one,  wherewith  spring  saw  them 
laden  —  whereto  summer  brought  usufruct. 
Or  great  Qr  small,  the  tale  of  them  is  made 
up.  Woe  to  the  land  if  frost,  if  drought, 
have  left  it  lank  and  lean ! 

Come  away  to  the  thicket  where  the  mus- 
cadine trails  free.  A  rampant  vine,  climb- 
ing, sprawling, 

"  The  silver  morns,  the  burning  noons, 
Lie  tranced  amid  its  bright  festoons." 

Up  under  them,  all  about  you,  see — by  twos, 
by  threes,  by  fives — the  sweet,  rough-rinded 
fruit,  twice  the  bigness  of  your  thumb's 
end,  thick- dusted  with  blue- black  bloom. 
The  smell  of  it  fills  the  wood-side — a  deep 
musk  odor,  heavy,  palpable  —  with  yet  a 


154 


tang — vinous,  savage,  as  its  coiling,  assert- 
ive stem.  The  charm,  the  languor,  of  the 
far  East  are  in  it,  curiously  in  leash  with  the 
new  West's  vital  crudeness. 

Eat  of  the  fruit — sweet  to  the  taste,  bitter 
to  the  tongue,  melting-full  of  fine,  sharp,  aro- 
matic juice.  If  you  have  Job's  patience, 
even  in  part,  it  will  yield  you  wine  o'  the 
rarest.  Pick  for  it  only  fair,  large  fruit 
— ripe,  sweet,  full  -  flavored.  Press  each 
black-bloomed  globe  'twixt  the  fingers  and 
thumb  till  juice  and  pulp  fall  out,  then  fling 
away  the  skin.  Therein  lies  the  burning 
roughness — the  ill,  fox-grape  flavor.  From 
the  hulled  meats  you  shall  drain  liquor  fit  for 
the  gods.  A  mcnth  of  hiss  and  bubble,  six 
of  fining,  fattening  upon  the  lees — a  pink, 
sparkling  flow  shall  rejoice  your  eye,  your 
palate,  put  heart  into  your  doing,  fill  all  your 
soul  with  color,  warmth,  perfume.  Crushed 
and  pressed  with  the  hulls,  there  will  be  only 
red  roughness,  muddy,  bitter,  good  to  no 
use  of  edifying,  yet  mounting  to  the  head. 
Of  a  verity,  Earth,  our  mother,  gives  the 
vine ;  man,  her  child,  must  answer  for  its 
use,  its  abuse. 

All  the  earth  lies  dry  and  warm,  and  pal- 
pitant in  sunshine.  The  touch  of  it  is  vital. 
Lie  at  length  here  in  the  pasture,  prone  on 


155 

its  springy  turf,  and  let  the  strength  of  it, 
the  sweetness,  the  balm  of  healing,  lap  your 
tired  soul  to  the  Elysium,  sleep— such  sleep 
as  comes  never  within  four  walls,  or  to  the 
downiest  couch  ever  fashioned  by  man's 
hand.  Sleep,  and  dream  not.  This  the 
hour  of  fruition,  needs  not  to  borrow  charm 
of  such  insubstantial  stuff.  A  full  world 
and  goodly  lies  all  about.  Upland,  orchards 
blush  red  and  yellow;  lowland,  stubble, 
meadow,  corn-field,  chant  in  high,  colorful 
notes  a  swelling  prelude  to  Nature's  har- 
vest-home. 

What  scent  comes  out  of  the  corn-land — 
rare,  fine,  subtile  as  breath  of  elfin  flowers  ? 
All  the  russet  rustling  stretch  is  steeped  in 
its  balm.  You  drink  it  in  long  gasps,  and 
turn  away,  sighing  —  it  is  full,  so  full,  of 
spring,  and  dew,  and  dawn,  and  hope,  and 
youth.  Only  pease  -  blossoms  !  See  the 
matted,  leafy  tangle  of  them  all  under  the 
corn.  The  painted,  patient  winged  flower 
shows  white  or  pinky-purple  or  palest  melt- 
ing blue.  Now  where  be  Cobweb,  Moth, 
and  Mustard -seed — this  field-sprite's  good 
compeers  —  Titania,  Bottom — all  the  fairy 
crew  ?  Who  knows  but  if  you  lingered  into 
moonrise  you  might  find  them  all  at  revel 
here,  with  Master  Pease-blossom  for  host. 


156 

In  his  cool,  green  fastnesses  of  shadow  they 
might  lurk  and  leap  even  through  garish  day. 

Maybe  they  sing,  those  small  people,  to 
keep  earth  from  bewailing  her  silent  birds. 
All  her  green,  shady  ways  teem  with  winged 
creatures  —  big,  lumpy  fledglings,  not  yet 
steady  of  wing ;  early  broods,  all  aruffle  with 
conceit ;  old  folk,  spent  and  voiceless,  in  the 
strain  after  smart  new  clothes.  Song  is  a 
memory.  They  flutter  and  preen  in  silence, 
hopping  from  branch  to  bough,  hovering, 
fluttering,  skimming  low  to  earth,  with  head 
aside  and  quick  up-glancing  of  eyes.  Now 
and  again  a  dropping  note  breaks  through 
the  fresh,  sweet  morning,  the  hushed,  dewy 
eve.  By  and  by  they  will  be  singing  farewell 
to  this  summer  land.  Already  blackbirds 
settle,  in  winged  clouds,  upon  tall  tree-tops, 
and  sit  faintly  debating  their  southward 
flight.  They  tarry  in  this  Jericho  till  their 
wings  are  well-grown — their  voices  as  well. 
Before  they  go  hence  you  shall  hear  from 
them  clamor  indeed — a  wild,  harsh,  metallic 
crying,  utterly  discordant,  yet  full  of  bar- 
baric charm. 

Master  Oriole  flew  away  at  the  first  red 
leaf.  Too  much  an  aristocrat  for  large 
families,  his  nestlings  came  to  full  flight  be- 
fore the  summer  ended.  Besides,  his  is  a 


157 

journey  of  halts.  He  travels  at  ease,  as  be- 
comes a  gentleman  of  leisure.  Fifty  miles 
this  week,  a  hundred  the  next  and  still  the 
next,  soon  bear  him  safe  below  the  line  of 
frost.  Everywhere  he  is  grand-seigneur  to 
the  tips  of  his  wings.  No  plebeian  flocking 
for  him.  He  disdains  other  company  than 
his  own  small  family,  even  though  it  wear 
his  royal  black  and  yellow. 

Not  so  Robin  Redbreast.  A  true  dem- 
ocrat he,  haunting  your  door-step,  singing 
so  free  from  his  mud  nest  in  the  fence,  rear- 
ing two,  it  may  be  three,  broods  each  year 
—massing  him,  at  last,  with  a  dear  five  hun- 
dred chirping  fellows,  for  his  cheery  follow- 
ing of  the  waning  sun.  As  yet  he  has  no 
mind  of  it.  See  him — sleek,  full -breasted, 
with  an  eye  of  meditative  content — pecking 
about  the  grass.  Is  he  not  the  moral  of  a 
thrifty  farmer  who  has  put  on  his  new  Sun- 
day suit  to  look  over  his  bursting  barns  ? 
Robin  takes  no  shame  for  the  pen-feathered 
rawness  of  his  late  young  brood.  They  are 
in  the  world — their  own  wits,  legs,  wings, 
must  make  and  keep  them  of  it.  Thus,  too, 
the  farmer  to  his  brood.  Often  from  that 
self-reliant  school  come  men  who  make  his- 
tory— no  doubt,  too,  birds  of  clearest  song, 
of  strongest  wing. 


158 

Winter  has  no  terror  for  the  bluebird. 
Here  in  the  land  of  his  birth  he  flits  and 
sings — a  true  provincial,  clinging  ever  more 
and  more  to  dear,  familiar,  homely  ways. 
The  redbird  bears  him  company.  So  does 
that  pert,  black-coated  fellow,  with  rust-red 
breast,  and  smart  small-clothes  of  lavender. 
"Joe  Ree,"  the  country  folk  call  him,  from 
his  last  insistent  note.  He  nests  low — on 
the  ground,  in  some  sedge  tussock,  or  the 
spreading  ambush  of  a  branchy  weed.  His 
song  mounts  aloft — a  bubbling  melody  of 
trills  and  turns,  sounding  always  higher, 
clearer,  to  the  last  rollicking  call,  "Joe-ree! 
joe-ree !  joe-ree-ter !" 

He  fares  far  afield — a  shy  fellow  that 
only  the  wind,  the  rain,  the  dew,  the  wood- 
sprites  know  intimately.  These  flights  of 
circling  swallows  cling  to  human  company. 
Almost  they  cover  the  face  of  the  sunset 
sky — wheeling,  dipping,  closing  to  ever-nar- 
rower round,  as  one  by  one  they  drop  to 
shelter  in  the  tall  chimney-throat.  Within 
it,  the  rumble  of  their  fluttering  wings  is 
thunderous,  yet  the  farm-folk  would  on  no 
account  drive  them  away.  Lightning  never 
strikes  the  chimney  wherein  swallows  roost 
—at  least  so  they  firmly  believe.  They 
think,  too,  with  Dan  Shakespeare, 


159 
"Where  this  bird  bides,  the  air  is  delicate." 

What  wonder  they  have  welcome  for  the 
winged  protectors  from  wrath  of  heaven  and 
plagues  of  earth?  Only  sharp  frost  shall 
banish  this  circling  multitude.  Through 
chill  mornings  they  lie  late  abed,  nor  stream 
away  till  nine  o'  the  clock,  to  skim  and 
wheel  high  under  the  waning  sun.  When 
the  pinch  comes  they  vanish,  nor  pause  nor 
stay  their  wings  till  the  southland  welcomes 
them.  Year  after  year  their  constant  wings 
return  to  the  birth  -  spot,  there  to  mark 
spring's  high  flood. 

A  jocund  time  this  should  be.  The  earth, 
the  fulness  thereof,  lies  smiling  peace  to  a 
perfect  heaven.  Yet  somehow  there  creeps 
in  an  under-note — a  wailing  minor  of  loss 
and  waste.  Faint,  ah,  so  faint !  you  hear  it 
in  the  singing  waters,  the  full,  rich,  rustling 
leaves,  the  low  winds  sighing  out  of  the  sky 
to  lose  them  as  wafts  of  balm.  Through 
them  September  saith  to  this  fair  world, 
"  Laugh,  dance,  lie  in  the  sun  ;  eat,  drink, 
and  be  merry.  To-morrow  you  must  die." 


IN    "THE    MOON    OF    FALLING 
LEAVES" 


afield  eVery  day  of  it. 
Whether  sun  shines,  or  rain 
drips,  or  white  frost  bites  and 
stings,  you  shall  find  a  liberal 
education  in  the  hectic  beauty 
of  death  ;  not  cruel  death,  but  a  tender  doom, 
sweet  with  the  glory  of  full  harvest,  and 
spanned  with  the  rainbow  of  spring  resur- 
rection. Truly,  the  red  men  called  it  well 
"the  moon  of  falling  leaves."  Each  waft  of 
winy  air  brings  fleets  of  fairy  argosies — rus- 
set, scarlet,  gold,  and  crimson  —  to  anchor 
on  the  breast  of  earth.  With  what  drifts  of 
them  the  south  wind  covers  fallow  and  grass 
land !  All  the  woods  are  pathless  now — 
footway,  cart  track,  mill  road,  alike  knee- 
deep  in  leaves.  The  highway,  even,  broad 
and  beaten  though  it  be,  shrinks  to  a  ghost- 
ly trail  through  a  fluttering  world  of  color. 
Here  big  walnuts  overhang  it,  and  overhead 
you  see  the  blue  heavens  through  lacework 


of  bare  black  boughs,  with  the  faintest  flut- 
ter of  lingering  leaves.  A  little  farther,  you 
tramp  through  the  hickory  flat.  Is  there 
magic  abroad  ?  Have  genii  or  gnomes 
caught  you  suddenly  into  a  golden  world  ? 
There  is  gold  all  about  you — overhead,  un- 
derfoot. It  must  be  these  lithe,  gray-stemmed 
woodland  giants  stored  all  of  sunshine  in 
their  hearts,  and  now  exhale  it  through  their 
leaves.  In  the  grayest  day  here  is  warmth 
and  splendor  —  a  flame  of  radiance  that 
makes  yet  darker  the  sombre  oak-wood. 
Now,  when  soft  winds  sift  out  of  a  cloudless 
sky,  what  words  shall  paint  its  splendid  lan- 
guors, its  glory  of  scent  an4  light  and  col- 
or ?  At  foot  the  foliate  gold  treads  softer 
than  velvet.  A  clean,  burning  fragrance 
uprises  as  you  press  it.  Here  is  not  only 
leaf,  but  fruit— nuts  of  all  sizes,  all  flavors. 
It  is  their  bruised  hulls  that  you  smell, 
though  upon  damp  mornings  the  leaves  are 
hardly  less  fragrant.  The  wood  is  alive 
v/ith  squirrels.  See  the  pair  frolicly  chas- 
ing one  the  other  around  a  huge  shagbark ! 
They  are  young  ones  who  as  yet  know  not 
the  burden  of  existence,  whose  pressure 
sends  so  many  others  hurrying,  scurrying, 
all  the  day  long,  laying  up  store  of  nuts 
against  the  coming  cold.  These  two  have 
ii 


162 


but  just  set  up  housekeeping  in  a  conven- 
ient hollow  of  the  big,  bending  oak.  Life 
has  so  far  meant  to  them  a  summer  of  buds 
and  berries  and  milky  corn  and  green,  ten- 
der nuts,  with  sleep  in  a  leaf  cradle  rocked 
by  summer  winds,  and  morning  scampers 
through  seas  of  dew  -  wet  boughs.  Only 
glimmering  instinct  tells  them  of  imminent 
deadly  change.  What  wonder  that  they 
make  ready  against  it  in  such  light-hearted, 
haphazard  fashion  !  Now  they  cease  their 
scamper,  and  drop  down  to  earth,  burrow- 
ing daintily  in  its  deep  leaf  carpet !  One 
rises  upon  his  haunches  with  a  nut  in  his 
jaws.  The  other  darts  to  seize  it,  and  for 
a  minute  the  two  roll  over  and  over,  a  furry 
ball  with  two  waving,  plumy  tails.  It  flies 
swiftly  apart ;  the  finder  hops  upon  a  rotting 
tree  trunk  to  chatter  malicious  triumph.  His 
mate  scurries  up  likewise,  and  sits  dejected 
a  foot  away  as  his  sharp  teeth  pierce  the 
hull.  She  has  quite  given  up  the  contest, 
and  is  sore-hearted  over  it.  Nuts  are  plen- 
ty, indeed,  but  surely  her  new  husband  need 
not  show  such  selfish  pride  in  the  first  find. 
Presently  she  creeps  past  him  to  the  log's 
other  end.  He  looks  sharply  after  her,  out 
of  the  corner  of  his  eye,  then  darts  to  her 
side,  pats  her  lightly  betwixt  the  ears,  and 


163 

as  she  turns  to  fate  him  drops  the  nut  of 
contention  safe  within  her  two  dainty  paws. 
At  once  she  falls  to  ravenous  gnawing.  He 
looks  on  a  minute,  then  rubs  his  head  ca- 
ressingly against  her,  and  hops  away  for 
new  treasure-trove.  They  will  take  home 
scarce  a  dozen  nuts  the  day ;  but  surely 
they  risk  nothing  by  such  delicious  idling. 
What  if  the  children  do  carry  away  the 
shagbarks,  the  butternuts,  the  hazelnuts, 
chestnuts,  black  walnuts  even,  here  are 
acorns  pattering  down,  a  russet  hail,  hardly 
less  sweet  and  toothsome  to  these  shy  wood- 
rangers. 

What  various  charm  lies  in  this  fruit  of 
the  oak !  See  these  shallow,  fine-grained 
cups  filled  with  long,  glossy,  brown-black 
ovals,  and  growing  in  clusters  of  twos,  of 
threes,  of  fives,  so  thick  along  the  tensile 
white-oak  branchlets!  The  post-oak's  cup 
will  scarce  go  on  your  little  finger,  and  clus- 
ters daintily  at  root  of  tufted  leaves.  "  Chin- 
capin  acorns,"  the  children  call  them.  You 
can  bed  near  a  dozen  of  them  in  one  of  the 
over-cups'  big,  deep-fringed  shells.  Spanish- 
oak  acorns  are  dark,  delicate,  graceful  as 
the  tree  itself.  Red  oak,  turkey-oak,  yield 
rough,  commonplace  mast.  You  might  gath- 
er all  by  the  bushel  in  any  ten  yards  of 


woodland.  Besides,  are  there  not  acres  of 
sweetish  rich  beechnuts  along  the  bottoms 
and  upland  hill-sides,  to  say  nothing  of  hips 
and  haws,  persimmons,  and  such  small  deer  ? 

In  the  oak-wood  leaves  lie  heaped  and 
mounded.  How  they  rustle  and  spring  as 
the  foot  presses  them  !  Even  in  death  they 
keep  the  impress  of  strength.  Especially 
the  black-jack's  crimson  foliage,  richest  in 
hue  of  all  the  sisterhood.  The  tree  is  not 
handsome — gnarled,  scrawny,  rough  of  bark, 
with  stiff  limbs  angularly  outspread  from  the 
crooked  trunk.  "  Too  crooked  to  lie  still." 
the  woodsmen  say,  even  after  you  have 
painfully  chopped  to  the  knotty  heart  and 
sent  it  crashing  to  earth.  For  eleven 
months  of  the  year  it  stands,  a  sylvan  Cin- 
derella, so  uncouth  that  the  very  birds  laugh 
it  to  scorn.  Frost  changes  all  that — hangs 
a  mantle  of  rubies  over  all  the  boughs.  The 
glory  deepens,  brightens,  endures.  Far  into 
November  you  may  see  the  flush  of  it  glow- 
ing sparsely  along  field  and  wood-side.  Oft- 
en the  red,  glossy  leaves  dance  down  with 
the  first  snow,  and  show  like  autumn's  life- 
blood  staining  the  mantle  of  her  conqueror. 

What  charm  fills  all  the  fields  !  Frost, 
like  adversity,  makes  an  end  to  weeds,  yet 
hardly  sears  grass  and  grain.  What  a  faint, 


165 

tender  hue  tinges  the  fallow  where  sprout- 
ing wheat  upthrusts  its  tiny  spears  !  Mead- 
ows show  green  as  in  May.  From  plough- 
land  you  sniff  the  fine,  subtle  fragrance  of 
new -turned  earth;  athwart  and  between 
hedge-rows  wave  flames  of  sumach  and  sas- 
safras, all  awreath  with  clematis  and  wild 
grape  and  wax-leaved  bramble-brier  ;  par- 
tridge-vine, too,  brave  in  deep-green  leaves 
and  coral-red  berries.  It  puts  to  shame  the 
laggard  flowers  that  yet  lurk  in  sheltered 
nooks.  Aster,  golden  -  rod,  even  the  deep- 
blue  gentian,  look  poor  and  pale  by  con- 
trast. Spice-wood,  though,  quite  outdazzles 
it.  All  the  thicket  is  aflaunt  with  its  red, 
red  fruit  and  big,  rough  leaves.  Up  among 
them  Indian-turnip  thrusts  her  glowing  cone 
— a  torch  of  flame  to  light  the  summer's 
flitting.  Ginseng,  too,  holds  up  even  richer 
red.  Is  it  not  wonderful  that  the  flower  of 
it — so  pale,  so  weak,  so  utterly  without  dis- 
tinction— should  be  forerunner  to  such  splen- 
dor ?  Is  it  not  typical  of  some  lives  ?  But 
why  vex  you  with  speculation  when  such 
sweet  haze  rims  the  world,  such  airs  breathe 
through,  and  over  all  sifts  the  long  benedic- 
tion of  sunlight  and  falling  leaves  ? 


ALL  IN  A   MIST 


wake  into  a  ghostly  world, 
where  thick,  white  dampness 
clings  and  abides.  It  is  the 
dead  Summer's  winding-sheet, 
pitifully  spread  by  Nature,  our 
mother,  to  soften  the  scathe  and  ruin  of 
black  frost.  Day  and  night  her  bond-slave, 
the  South  Wind,  has  sucked,  roaring,  from 
the  far  gulf  these  billowing  vapors  that  kiss 
and  cling,  and  weep  soft  tears  for  the  flow- 
ers they  cannot  bring  back  to  life. 

Dawn-light  is  shrouded  to  dullish  gray- 
dark.  Cocks  crow  through  it,  faint  and 
spectral.  Cattle  low  dully,  as  though  send- 
ing their  voices  astray  in  some  vast  void. 

Presently  a  fine,  clear  note  sifts  through 
the  blurred  noises — penetrant,  vibrant  as 
the  call  of  fairy  bugles.  Bob  White  is  drift- 
ing afield.  An  early  riser  he.  That  is  his 
feeding  cry,  never  lieard  save  just  after 
autumn  dawns.  They  are  constant  small 
creatures — he  and  his  sort.  No  matter  how 


far  afield  the  daylight  may  see  them,  twi- 
light finds  them  always  close  to  the  home- 
nest. 

A  pretty  sight,  indeed,  if  you  can  but 
manage  to  steal  upon  it.  There  will  be 
twenty,  thirty — it  may  be  fifty — small  brown 
creatures,  huddled  all  together,  their  striped 
heads  aring  outside.  At  the  touch  it  breaks 
up  into  whirring  wings  or  scurrying  feet, 
running  hither  and  yon.  Not  till  the  in- 
truder is  miles  away  will  they  begin  calling 
one  to  another  through  the  hushed  dark. 

Wondrous  weather-wise,  too,  are  these 
small  deer.  If  they  breakfast  with  cheery 
piping,  feeding  straight  away  to  the  woods, 
look  for  a  hot,  dry  autumn  day,  full  of  windy 
sunshine.  When  they  hug  the  thickets 
close  snow  is  in  the  air ;  when  they  make 
for  thick,  rough  cover — sedge,  briers,  high 
grass — bitter  winds  will  come  out  of  the 
north  to  freeze  your  marrow,  to  cut  and  sting. 

They  are  peeping  now  from  the  corn-land 
— it  will  be  warm  and  wet  all  day.  A  clear, 
jangling  chorus  cuts  sharply  through  their 
calling.  Field-larks  are  at  Matins — twenty 
yellow-breasts  arow  upon  the  big  oak,  for 
so  long  a  landmark  of  the  pastures.  Its 
huge  boll  is  dank  and  dark,  all  its  big  limbs 
dripping.  The  plashing  drops  beat  a  fairy 


i63 


tattoo  to  accent  the  melody  of  these  small 
throats.  Merry  Master  Yellow-breast,  you 
have  no  fear  of  ghosts.  All  in  the  white 
cloud  you  break  your  heart  of  music  to  hail 
the  new  day. 

Slow,  faint,  yet  ever-brightening  it  comes. 
Low,  level  sunbeams  dissolve  in  the  mist 
and  distil  them  tears  of  radiance  from 
sparse  red  and  yellow  leaves.  How  slow 
they  fall  from  this  blood  -  red  gum  -  tree — 
slow  and  still  as  the  passing  of  a  dead,  dear 
hope. 

Uplift  the  face  to  them.  May-Day's  even 
dew  is  no  more  freshening,  revivifying. 
Now  the  air  thins,  but  does  not  clear.  Mist 
still  wraps  the  world- as  a  garment,  but  has 
lost  its  shroud  -  whiteness  and  taken  on  a 
gray  translucence.  All  things  are  seen  as 
in  a  glass  darkly.  Even  the  red  boughs 
overhead — redly  crimson  as  murder — take 
on  a  tender  color  as  languid  airs  stir  faintly 
through. 

A  miracle  has  been  wrought  along  grass- 
land and  hedge-row.  You  have  seen  them 
dank  or  dew-bright  this  many  a  time  and 
oft.  Rarely  in  such  raiment  of  pearl-sown 
gossamer  as  now  enfolds.  All  in  the  bright 
weather  the  spiders  spun  it — swiftly,  deftly, 
with  cunning  patience.  Winds  blew  low, 


rain  did  not  visit  the  world  too  roughly — else 
the  fairy  craft  had  been  vain.  It  wrought 
too  delicately  for  mortal  eyes.  You  would 
never  have  known  of  it  but  for  the  generous 
mist  that  has  delighted  to  embroider  it  in 
royal  fashion. 

Here  is  a  web  fit  to  robe  the  fairy  queen 
herself.  There,  one  scarce  the  bigness  of 
your  hollowed  palm.  Ropes  of  pearls  run 
all  about — now  athwart  the  path,  now  from 
some  twig  of  vantage,  else  dropping  from 
point  to  point  of  the  hedge -row's  thorny 
tangle. 

Close  and  low  at  its  root  you  see  a  silk- 
wrought  tube,  whose  clinging  meshes  have 
trapped  a  big  bumble-bee.  Poor,  merry, 
clumsy  fellow !  All  his  bravery  of  gold- 
powdering,  his  bravado  of  humming,  could 
not  save  him  from  the  cunning  snare,  where 
now  he  lies  coffined.  Surely,  though,  the 
mist  loved  him  well.  See  what  jewels,  more 
than  royal,  gleam  over  the  fatal  web.  A 
prince  of  the  air,  he  will  have  truly  royal 
sepulture. 

Something  falls  faintly  against  your  cheek 
— a  floating  filament  fast  to  a  twig  a  dozen 
yards  away.  There  are  hundreds — thou- 
sands— more  awave  in  the  humid  air.  Were 
they  spun  in  mere  wantonness,  or  do  they 


I7Q 

serve  as  railways  whereon  the  spinners  run 
swiftly  about  their  world?  Up,  down, 
across,  athwart  they  go — a  labyrinth  with 
never  a  possible  clue. 

How  green  the  grass  shows  under  it! 
May  has  not  tenderer  verdure  than  these 
new  spears.  So  fresh  are  they,  so  smiling- 
bright,  what  wonder  the  low  cloud  kisses 
them.  Low  and  lower  it  drops.  Overhead, 
the  eye  pierces  to  far,  faint  ethereal  blue. 
To  left,  to  right,  the  billowing  vapors  wrap 
all  the  world  from  sight. 

Something  whirls  through  the  dimness — 
something  white  with  glancing  wings.  The 
pigeons  have  left  their  cote,  and  dash  be- 
wildered through  the  mist,  vainly  seeking 
the  stubble  where  daily  they  feed  fat.  One, 
not  yet  fairly  in  flight,  flutters  down  to  your 
feet — tremulous,  helpless,  utterly  afraid. 
How  the  poor  heart  beats  as  it  lies  in  your 
hand,  all  its  pretty  white  feathers  aruffle,  a 
world  of  appeal  in  its  soft,  clear  eyes! 
Touch  it  tenderly,  warm  it  at  your  breast. 
A  little  while,  and  it  will  feed  from  your 
hand,  come  to  call,  perch  joyfully  on  your 
shoulder — it  may  be  even  ruffle  and  preen 
it  upon  your  arm.  A  true-love  bird  it  is, 
ready  to  give  you  all  its  warm  heart  if  you 
do  but  show  yourself  willing  to  take  it. 


Harsh  screams  break  up  the  muffled 
morning  stillness;  there  is  wild  swooping 
earthward  of  some  huge  feathered  thing ; 
more  cries,  a  great  running  to  and  fro.  The 
peacocks  are  awake — have  been,  indeed,  this 
two  hours — yet  have  barely  agreed  with 
themselves  to  leave  their  roost — the  tall  oak 
by  the  gate.  Gaudy  savages  are  they,  all 
and  several,  yet  never  was  watch -dog  so 
vigilant.  At  the  faintest  stir  their  wild 
shrilling  murders  sleep.  It  was  this  trust- 
worthy quality,  maybe,  that  made  them  the 
bird  of  chivalry.  Your  true  knight  swore 
always  "  By  the  peacock  and  the  ladies." 

In  general  they  are  no  sluggards.  It  is 
the  mist,  surely,  which  has  kept  them  aperch 
till  eight  o'  the  clock.  How  queer  .and  un- 
gainly the  cock  -  birds  look !  —  long,  limp, 
draggle-tailed,  darting  hither  and  yon,  now 
seen,  now  vanished  —  a  race  of  feathered 
ghosts. 

For  the  mist  is  rolling  in,  thick  and  thick- 
er. The  south  wind  is  under  it ;  it  must 
fall  as  rain  or  rise  as  cloud.  A  rift  breaks 
through  it — there  far  to  the  right.  One  hand 
it  goes  up  and  up,  heaving,  tossing,  ever  ris- 
ing, away  to  the  rimming  hills.  Within  the 
half-hour  you  shall  see  it  sail  down  wind,  a 
drifting"  cumulus,  white  and  high,  that  by 


172 

nightfall  will  have  a  heart  of  red  electric 
fire. 

The  other  half  folds  back,  rolls  away  as 
a  scroll,  to  rest,  white  and  wreathen,  over 
the  tall  trees  marking  the  creek's  course. 
There  the  sun,  lying  so  warm  on  the  still 
valley,  shall  melt  it  out  of  sight.  Even  thus 
early  it  owns  the  power  of  that  low,  slant, 
golden  shining.  Underneath  it,  what  drip- 
ping freshness,  what  vivid,  fruity  scents, 
what  tender  smile  of  late,  pale  blossoms  in 
this  the  sunset  of  the  year. 


TONGUES  IN  TREES 


>F  Woodland  is  not  vocal  to  you, 
you  must  indeed  be  dull  and 
of  the  earth,  earthy.  If  the 
wood-sprites  do  but  love  you, 
what  wisdom,  what  harmonies 
it  holds !  Whisperings  soft  as  the  breath 
of  violets ;  clear  singing  of  spread  boughs 
in  the  fine  upper  air. 

To  hear  them  in  full  chorus  go  listen  when 
the  leaves,  fresh-fallen,  lie  heaped  underfoot, 
and  through  the  bare,  billowing  tree-tops 
the  evening-star  gleams  faint.  You  shall 
hear  then  first  the  strong  note  of  the  Oaks. 
Brothers  all — yeomen  of  the  forest — stand- 
ing always  at  guard ;  the  same  sap  thrills 
each  core,  spite  of  their  different  leaves. 

One  tree  is  white  and  tall  and  slender, 
with  the  strength  of  good  courage  in  its 
tough,  tensile  fibre.  Another  is  rough  and 
ruddy — a  huge,  hearty  fellow,  brittle  and 
coarse  of  grain.  Still  another  stands  dark 
and  slim  and  so  straight  as  to  woo  the 


174 

woodsman's  axe.  Yet  another  uplifts  his 
dense,  pale  column — hard,  fine,  close  of 
grain — beset  on  every  hand  with  drooping, 
viny  branches. 

Do  you  not  hear  them  shouting,  "  For 
Earth — our  mother,"  as — or  light  or  dark,  or 
tall  or  branchy — they  do  battle  with  the  pow- 
ers of  the  air?  Truly,  their  locked  arms 
are  a  shield  guarding  her  tender  breast 
alike  from  sun  or  frost.  And  what  queen- 
mother  might  not  pride  her  in  such  serried 
array  of  good,  tall  warrior  -  sons  ?  —  ready 
to  dare  alike  the  wind's  wild  wrath,  the 
lightning's  scathe.  If  they  fall  she  has 
but  to  lap  them  in  her  soft,  cool  breast ; 
and  from  death  shall  spring  the  resurrection 
—the  light -the  life. 

Ah  ha  !  Here  is  Sir  Walnut.  The  rabid- 
est  Red  Republican  of  the  wood  cannot  deny 
him  a  title  as  his  right.  By  grace  of  en- 
vironment he  is  either  knight  or  courtier. 
Here  in  the  forest  depths  he  soars  columnar 
— a  pillar  of  sylvan  state.  It  is  fifty  feet,  if 
one,  to  his  feathery  crown  of  boughs.  Giv- 
en room  o'  the  fields,  he  will  branch  and 
burgeon  until  a  regiment  might  shelter  and 
feast  in  his  shade. 

There  is  suave  grandeur  in  the  rise  of  his 
boughs,  the  down-dropping  of  his  twigs  and 


175 


branches.  Even  the  straight,  seamy  outer 
shell  seems  to  say  aloud,  "  Here  is  no  com- 
moner, but  wood  of  the  sap  royal."  Maybe, 
too,  in  its  darkness,  it  holds  more  than  a 
hint  of  the  dead  it  shall  encoffin.  Even 
cedar  has  not  better  endurance  in  damp 
earth.  Pioneer  hands  lay  heavy  upon  it 
when  farms  were  being  won  from  the  wil- 
derness. A  hundred  years  later  the  walnut 
stumps  remained — to  fetch,  in  many  cases, 
more  than  any  intervening  crop. 

Master  Hickory  is  a  sylvan  politician. 
Shadow  him,  estop  him  as  you  will,  he 
manages  always  to  creep  into  full  sunshine. 
By  preference  he  grows,  stands  straight— a 
lithe,  vital,  arrowy  fellow,  who  might  dare  all 
storms,  yet  bends  to  any.  A  handsome  gal- 
lant is  he  in  his  green  summer  bravery,  yet 
with  eerie  suggestions  in  his  bare,  blunt, 
writhen  autumn  boughs. 

"We  bow  to  rise,"  they  say,  swaying 
hither  and  yon  in  the  chill  wind.  From 
their  pliant  tossing  you  would  never  guess 
what  warmth  and  good  cheer  and  sweet, 
smoky  sap  are  stored  up  in  the  trunk.  A 
fire  of  hickory  logs  is  the  finest  cheerful 
missionary.  Even  the  smoke  of  it  hath 
virtue.  It  heals  green  wounds — that,  too, 
whether  you  suffer  them  of  mind  or  body. 


176 

Fair  Mistress  Tulip -tree,  I  salute  you. 
Truly  you  may  be  set  down, 

"A  daughter  of  the  gods,  divinely  tall, 
And  most  divinely  fair." 

Fair  even  o'  winter,  when  you  boast  only 
your  lacy  branches,  your  smooth,  gray- 
purple  bark.  What  words  shall  paint  you 
when  summer  winds  lose  them  in  your  love- 
crown  of  flowers,  when  bird  and  bee  lie 
afaint  in  the  Elysium  of  your  bloomy 
breast?  What  is  it  you  sigh  down  your 
slender  height  ?  "  Loving  is  living  !"  Then 
must  you  be  blessed  indeed,  O  Madonna 
of  the  forest!  The  Sun  loves  you,  the 
Wind,  the  Earth  and  her  children,  and  all 
tender  winged  things. 

More  even  than  that  good  white  nun,  the 
Beech,  with  her  veil  of  fine  twigs,  where  the 
winter  through  there  cling  wisps  of  her  rus- 
set leaves.  Truly  she  is  a  Sister  of  Charity, 
flinging  food  and  shelter  to  bird  and  squirrel 
and  merry  child.  Full,  too,  of  the  meekest 
humility  for  all  her  royal  port.  Up  and  up 
the  eye  follows  her  white  height  till,  for 
very  weariness,  it  is  fain  to  follow  no  far- 
ther. Years  agone  Love  carved  Love's  name 
on  the  smooth  lower  trunk.  Now — alack 
for  humanity ! — the  word  remains,  though 


177 


love  and  lover  are  dead  and  dust.  In  the 
quaint,  tipsy  lettering  read  the  tree's  sad- 
dening message.  "  All  is  vanity,"  it  saith. 
"  Life  doth  fade  as  a  leaf.  As  for  the  dead, 
their  works  do  follow  them." 

A  little  space  and  Wild-Cherry  trees  cover 
the  face  of  earth.  A  tall  growth  and  good- 
ly. It  rises  so  straight,  so  stately,  to  fill 
the  world  with  its  fine,  faint  almond  scent. 
These  be  woodland  senators,  justifiably 
proud,  nodding  one  to  the  other,  "  After  us, 
the  judgment." 

Beyond  them  a  Sweet-Gum  towers.  Sev- 
enty feet  of  straight  roundness  to  the  first 
limb.  Will  you  gainsay  that  here  is  a 
knight-errant,  rising  thus  high  to  spy  out 
wrong  and  oppression  ? 

Close  beside  a  Sugar-Maple  tosses  and 
preens  her,  conscious  of  the  sweet  sap 
treasured  at  her  heart.  There  is  the  vil- 
lage belle,  intoxicate  with  her  own  charms, 
and  all  oblivious  of  her  sister,  the  Swamp- 
maple,  born  tragedy's  queen.  All  through 
the  white  winter  she  sleeps,  dreaming  of 
blood — blood  that  the  spring  pours  over 
her,  a  rain  of  scarlet  blossoms. 

The  Sycamore — Scripture's  plane-tree  — 
has  surely  the  legal  habit  of  mind.  His 
coat  sets  so  loose  he  must  be  forever  turn- 

12 


178 

ing  it.  Besides,  he  makes  a  point  wherever 
trunk  and  branches  meet.  Assuredly  the 
causes  o'  Christendom  might  be  writ  large 
upon  his  leaves. 

Jack  Ash  is  a  sailor  born — lithe  and  tough 
as  becomes  one  sprung  from  seed  shaped  for 
a  true  fairy-oar.  All  the  family  of  Poplars 
—white,  blue,  yellow — are  country  gentle- 
men, big,  bluff,  hearty,  upright,  and  soft  of 
grain.  Here  stand  a  dozen,  none  of  whose 
girths  four  men's  linked  hands  could  span. 

At  one  side  lies  the  parent  trunk — fire- 
scarred,  hollow — wherein  you  may  stand  up- 
right. A  bent,  gnarled  Sassafras  grows  in 
the  crumbling  stump  of  it.  While  the  great 
Poplar  towered  aloft,  the  Sassafras  clung, 
half  starved,  to  a  cleft  in  its  root— a  very  har- 
lequin of  turns  and  twists,  at  which  no  doubt 
the  monarch  of  the  forest  in  life  was  prop- 
erly amused.  Now  he  lies  dead,  with  the 
dwarf  mopping  and  mowing  above  him,  draw- 
ing strength  and  sustenance  from  his  ruin. 

No  doubt  you  have  seen  such  cases.  Life 
is  strangely  parallel  through  all  its  chan- 
nels. Some  trees,  some  souls,  grow  small 
and  crooked,  no  matter  what  the  environ- 
ment— or  maybe  because  of  it. 

Here  is  Dogwood  glowing  scarlet  in  the 
berry,  maugre  her  snow  of  blossom.  A  true 


179 

prude  she — with  fire  under  her  snow,  and 
likewise  bitter  of  heart  and  root. 

The  parable  is  endless.  You  may  trace 
it  on  every  hand.  Tongues  there  be  in 
trees  to  tell  all  of  human  story.  The  Willow 
waves,  drooping  in  grief ;  the  Locust  flaunts, 
thorny  as  pride. 

If  one  star  differeth  from  another  in 
glory,  how  much  more  one  tree?  All  have 
their  uses,  their  semblances.  The  rain,  the 
sunshine,  fall  on  all  alike.  From  them  is 
wrought  the  sweet,  the  bitter,  each  after  his 
kind.  And  who  shall  say,  shall  gainsay, 
that  sweet  or  bitter  lies  nearest  the  heart  of 
Nature,  our  mother  ? 


SUNDOWN 


^IRY-GOLD  rims  the  far  up- 
land sky-line.  It  is  the  merest 
thread  of  sunlight  lingering  on 
oak-woods  all  arustle  in  their 
yellow-russet  bravery.  Above 
them  gray-purple  haze  melts  soft  up  to  the 
clear  heaven,  cloudless,  save  for  the  low, 
western  bank  flaming,  fire-scarlet,  along  its 
upper  edge.  Truly,  you  might  fancy  it  some 
dim  underworld  castle,  with  storm-winds  at 
bay  in  its  thunderous  breast  and  waging 
bloody  battle  for  freedom. 

They  must  win  it  ere  long.  The  air  is 
tense.  Vivid,  too,  with  scent  from  sere 
grass  and  ripe  fruit  and  fresh,  new-fallen 
leaves.  Through  the  heavy  stillness  sound 
carries  marvellously.  The  windless  caress- 
ing air  woos  the  ear  to  linger  and  listen. 

What  a  medley  it  brings  to  the  hearing ! 
The  pounding  and  grinding  of  hoofs,  of 
Wheels,  upon  the  highway;  the  loud  rattle 
of  heaped  wagons  straining  home  from  the 


corn -fields;  the  clamorous  low  of  cattle 
trooping  in  from  outlying  pasture-land;  the 
keen,  hungry  squealing  of  pigs  unfed ;  the 
house-dogs  barking  in  a  dozen  farmsteads ; 
now  and  again  a  cock's  crow  breaking 
through.  Over  all,  accenting  it  into  time 
and  tune,  a  ringing  rhythm  of  axe-strokes 
anear  and  afar. 

What  a  dear  sound  it  is !  It  brings  the 
sense  of  hearth  and  home,  means  sweet- 
ness and  light,  and  warmth  and  love.  If 
all  the  world  and  his  wife  could  but  sit  by 
a  wood  fire,  what  a  lessening  there  would  be 
of  the  sum  of  human  unhappiness. 

For  is  it  not,  indeed,  the  soul  of  good 
cheer,  made  beautifully  manifest  in  billow- 
ing smoke?  in  leaping  flame?  red  coals?  nay, 
even  in  clean,  pearly  ashes  ?  What  treason, 
stratagem,  or  spoil  can  endure  its  clear  shin- 
ing, or  take  hold  upon  a  soul  warm  with  its 
vital  heat!  Envy,  malice,  and  all  uncharit- 
ableness  must  evanish  up  the  chimney.  No 
foul  thing  surely  can  abide  the  hearth-fire's 
glow. 

Alack !  the  sundown  symphony  is  made 
up,  for  the  most  part,  of  wailing  minors,  that 
drown  the  cheery  axe-stroke—yea,  bury  it 
out  of  hearing.  Black  dark  is  not  so  deso- 
late as  this  cold  twilight.  It  is  more  pitiless 


182 


even  than  sunshine  to  the  dim  fields  bare 
and  wide,  the  waning  woods,  the  hedge- rows, 
heart-broken  over  their  ghosts  of  flowers. 
From  the  going  down  of  the  sun  to  the 
coming  out  of  the  stars  the  sky  shows  a 
hard,  unloving  brilliance  —  drearier,  more 
desolate,  than  grayest  clouds. 

Though  no  twig  stirs  in  the  wood,  a  sub- 
tile sighing  sweeps  through  it.  All  the 
Dryads  are  ashiver  for  their  poor  dead 
leaves  that  soon — ah  !  so  soon — the  cold, 
white  snow  shall  cover. 

At  rest,  here  in  this  little  clearing  at  the 
wood's  edge,  their  cry  slips  into  your  heart. 
In  the  open  it  is  still  good  daylight.  Here, 
where  trees  shut  in  three  sides,  all  is  ghost- 
ly clare-obscure.  Is  that  a  ghost  calling 
through  it  ?  Verily,  it  is  a  weird  wailing 
that  smites  the  dusk.  Out  from  the  deep 
forest-vista  something  sails,  slow  and  noise- 
less, upon  wide  wings,  with  eyes  of  green 
fire.  A  dead  tree  towers,  stark  and  white, 
just  in  the  middle  of  the  clearing.  One  of 
the  big  brown  horned  owls  is  flying  in  to 
perch  him  upon  its  topmost  point.  What 
sweep,  what  spread  of  wing  he  has — five 
feet,  if  one,  from  tip  to  tip.  What  a  loud 
flutter  of  furling  as  he  settles  slow  upon  his 
unsteady  perch ! 


183 

Again  you  hear  his  cry — low,  harsh,  wail- 
ing. So  might  a  lost  soul  call  back  across 
the  Styx  for  the  partner  of  its  ill -deeds 
done  in  the  body.  The  cry  is  answered — 
once,  twice,  thrice.  Other  wings  are  spread; 
other  fiery  eyes  gleam  through  the  deepen- 
ing dusk.  Five  huge  creatures  are  flapping, 
lurching,  hooting  atop  of  this  sylvan  ghost 
— the  poor  tree,  bare  of  all  its  pretty  frip- 
pery of  branch  and  bough.  Only  three  big 
prongs  remain  to  it.  The  first  comer  chose 
the  highest  for  his  seat,  and  perches  there 
defiant  of  the  later  ones  who  wheel  threat- 
eningly around  him. 

Presently  there  is  a  bird  on  each  tip,  ruf- 
fling hate  and  scorn  at  the  two  who  lag 
superfluous  on  the  scene.  But  the  slug- 
gards are  in  no  wise  cast  down.  They  have 
pluck,  or  temper,  and  to  spare.  See  them 
circle  to  the  clearing's  utmost  verge,  then 
sweep,  full  flight,  upon  their  fellows  so  in- 
sultingly uplifted.  Mighty  human  that ! 
Who  of  us  has  not  burned  with  the  right- 
eousness of  our  wrath  against  some  con- 
spicuous self-poised  usurper — our  yearning 
to  dislodge  him  ? 

Evidently  one  of  these  usurpers  is  a  faint- 
heart, all  unworthy  to  wear  his  feathered 
spurs.  He  avoids  the  shock  of  battle, 


-184 

drops  half-way  to  earth,  checks  his  descent 
with  a  quick  outstretching  of  wings,  and 
sails  off  down  the  "woodland,  sweeping  so 
low  as  almost  to  dazzle  you  with  the  gleam 
of  his  green  eyes. 

Peace  comes  of  his  exit.  The  rest  some- 
how make  terms,  and  perch  together,  fling- 
ing their  wild,  intermittent  hooting  out  into 
the  darkening  world.  What  powerful,  trem- 
ulous discord  they  set  up  !  as  audible  a  mile 
away  as  here  within  ten  rods. 

From  a  near  hollow  oak  a  screech-owl 
begins  to  call.  How  contemptuously  the 
big  wings  overbear  and  drown  the  cry  of 
their  puny  congener.  He  is  an  odd  fellow 
—a  sort  of  pretentious  poor  relation,  owlish 
mainly  in  his  voice.  That  is  eerie  enough 
in  all  conscience — to  superstitious  folk,  the 
sure  forerunner  of  death  or  ill-luck;  which 
you  can,  however,  avert  by  flinging  at  the 
bird  either  salt  or  a  sweet  potato  over  your 
left  shoulder. 

The  dusk  has  other  voices.  Far  down 
the  hill  a  faint  cry  sounds,  and  is  answered 
from  the  bluff.  Your  ear  would  fail  to  mark 
it  in  other  than  this  thick,  still,  hearing  air. 
There  is  blood-thirst  in  the  cry;  cunning, 
too;  and  the  cautious  wisdom  of  experience. 
Reynard  the  Fox  gives  tongue  but  rarely. 


i8s 

Something  out  of  the  common  must  be  lit- 
erally in  the  wind. 

It  is  something — something  overhead — 
on  wings  as  swift  almost  as  light.  High  be- 
twixt you  and  the  peeping  stars  you  see  a 
dark  pyramidal  line.  A  shrill,  trumpeting 
challenge  drifts  down,  down.  Wild  geese 
in  flight,  and  hungry.  The  wedge  breaks 
up — wheeling,  shrilling,  they  drop  into  the 
corn-land  and  begin  to  feed. 

Reynard  the  Fox  knew  that  they  would, 
and  called  his  mate  to  a  feast.  Of  a  verity, 
there  must  be  things  undreamed  of  in  our 
philosophy.  Else  how  should  one  wild 
creature  thus  sense  afar  off  the  need,  the 
purpose,  of  another  ? 

Looking  with  all  your  eyes,  you  will  not 
see  Reynard  the  Fox.  For  such  errand  he 
hath  sure  receipt  of  fern-seed,  and  doth  walk 
invisible.  You  cannot  help  but  see  that 
furry  diplomat,  Brer  Rabbit.  Depend  on 
it,  his  seeming  of  timid  innocence  is  much 
more  than  half  a  counterfeit.  He  scurries 
out  from  the  brier-patch,  almost  under  your 
feet,  goes  swift  as  an  arrow  down  wind  over 
fallen  leaves  to  the  wood's  edge.  There  he 
will  crouch  him  till  you  go  your  way,  when 
he  will  be*off  to  the  orchard  for  apples,  the 
field  for  corn,  and  finish  with  a  salad  of 
green  young  clover  buds. 


1 86 


Night  has  fallen  fully  now,  yet  brought 
no  dark.  The  sky  is  aflame  with  stars, 
burning  big  and  white  in  its  clear  round. 
A  wind  comes  out  of  the  north — crisp,  sting- 
ing, deadly.  Morning  will  shine  over  ice 
on  roadside  pools — a  world  thick-powdered 
with  diamonds  of  the  frost.  Get  you  in  to 
the  fireside,  there  to  sit  close,  forgetting  this 
nipping,  eager  air.  You  feel  the  blowing  of 
it.  Inferior  animals,  so-called,  were  warned 
of  it  at  sundown. 


AFTER  FROST 

i  HEN  comes  the  wine  of  the 
year.  What  though  flowers 
are  nipped  and  summer  birds 
all  gone,  the  world  lies  lapped 
in  liquid  melting  haze,  the 
scent  of  fruit  and  corn  comes  keen  from 
field  and  orchard ;  over  all,  soft,  late  sun- 
shine sifts  in  long,  low,  slanting  lines. 
Frost  itself  is  cruel.  It  comes  heralded 
maybe  by  a  thunder-gust ;  there  is  the  pour 
of  big  drops  or  the  pitiless  pelting  of  hail, 
a  vivid  flash  or  two,  and  crashing  peals  over- 
head. Then  out  of  the  northwest  sweeps 
something  keen  and  deadly.  The  clouds 
vanish.  All  night  long  that  biting  breath 
sweeps  over  the  face  of  earth.  At  dawn 
the  world  looks  much  the  same,  only  flow- 
ers and  creepers  are  oddly  stiff.  Half  an 
hour  of  sunshine  shows  what  havoc  has 
been  wrought.  Summer  lies  in  ashes,  with 
hardly  a  rose  left  for  her  bier. 

All  day  the  sharp  wind  blows,  and  for 


i88 


yet  another  day.  Then  it  veers  west,  south- 
west, south,  and  sits  steady  for  a  fortnight. 
Breathing  rather  than  blowing,  you  can 
barely  feel  it  as  you  walk  abroad.  The  nut- 
woods are  a  glory  of  yellow  leaves.  Over- 
head they  have  thinned  to  a  mere  gold-lace 
against  the  blue.  Underfoot  they  lie  knee- 
deep,  a  rustling,  fragrant  carpet,  in  whose 
depths  you  find  scaly-barks,  chestnuts,  big 
hickory-nuts,  or  white  walnuts.  Black  wal- 
nuts are  so  big  and  plenty  that  the  sparse 
leaves  cannot  hide  them.  A  fruitful  tree 
will  completely  cover  the  spread  of  its 
branches  with  the  yellow -brown  globes. 
For  hazelnuts  and  chincapins  you  must 
go  to  the  thickets.  Both  love  and  cling 
to  deep,  rich,  sunny  virgin  soil.  Unless 
they  are  very  plenty,  the  squirrels  will  be 
apt  to  get  all.  They  are  something  of  epi- 
cures, those  small,  saucy  fellows,  and  dis- 
dain mere  acorns  if  they  can  feed  on  choice 
sweet  nuts.  See !  They  have  rifled  the 
clusters ;  but  you  need  not  go  away  empty- 
handed.  A  wild  grape  runs  riot  here,  and 
hangs  its  black,  sweet  clusters  in  easy  reach 
— quite  too  easy,  in  fact. 

You  have  only  to  pluck  and  fill  your 
basket,  whereas  the  orthodox  thing  for  a 
grape  hunter  is  either  to  "pull  down  the 


vine,"  or  else  to  climb  the  sapling  that  up- 
bears it  to  the  very  top,  then  clasp  it  with 
both  hands  and  swing  off,  bringing  tree  and 
vine  to  earth.  Grapes  so  obtained  have  al- 
most the  savor  of  forbidden  fruit — a  wild, 
fresh,  woodsy  flavor,  with  a  tang  of  frost 
that  no  clusters  from  the  vineyard  may 
hope  to  equal. 

A  little  farther  on  stand  persimmon-trees 
in  clumps.  The  small  clear  space  about 
them  held  a  pioneer's  cabin  eighty -odd 
years  ago.  There  is  no  trace  of  it  now, 
save  the  big  flat  stones  that  mark  the 
hearth  and  these  thick-growing  trees. 

Persimmon  beer  was  the  height  of  liquid  / 
luxury  in  those  days.  To  make  it,  the  ripe 
fruit  was  gathered,  mashed,  and  kneaded 
with  corn  meal  into  big  flat  cakes  an  inch 
thick.  After  baking,  these  were  broken  up 
in  water,  and  allowed  to  ferment.  The  re- 
sult was  a  clear,  pale,  yellow  liquid,  sweetish- 
sour,  with  a  faint  sparkle  to  it — in  short,  the 
champagne  of  that  primitive  era.  These 
trees  did  not  furnish  it.  Instead  they 
sprang  from  seed  thrown  away  in  beer- 
making.  They  are  bare  of  leaves  now,  but 
hung  thick  with  soft,  sweet,  tawny- yellow 
globes,  thick-dusted  with  purple  bloom.  A 
week  ago  they  looked  fully  ripe,  but  if  you 


i  go 

had  tasted  one  the  bitter  roughness  would 
have  clung  to  your  mouth  half  the  day. 
Frost  has  sweetened  them. 

It  is  the  same  with  black  haws.  Chil- 
dren and  'possums  count  them  well  worth 
eating.  Grown  folk  are  apt  to  find  too  little 
fruit  to  the  amount  of  seed.  Even  the  birds, 
save  in  stress  of  snow,  refuse  the  big,  coarse, 
red  ones  that  shine  like  rubies  all  over 
thorny  branches.  The  rare,  small,  red  one, 
growing  in  clusters  much  like  the  garden 
currant,  is  a  dainty  morsel  for  any  palate. 
It  loves  the  lowland — all  the  hawthorns  do 
— and  seldom  grows  twenty  feet  away  from 
water.  Its  leaves  are  among  the  last  to 
fall.  Gather  laden  branches  of  it,  if  only 
for  their  beauty.  Box-elderberries  are  the 
only  things  that  compare  with  it.  Mark 
the  grace  of  them — round  beads,  true  coral 
red,  hung  in  clusters  by  white  stalks  from 
out  a  thick  crimson-fleshed  bract.  See  how 
thickly  they  are  sown  along  smooth,  slender, 
green  branches  that  join  at  almost  right 
angles  to  make  up  a  big  bough !  The 
boughs  come  out  as  squarely  from  a  smooth, 
yellow-gray  trunk.  The  tree  never  grows 
very  tall — thirty  feet  at  most.  Frost  fairies 
may  well  choose  it  for  their  revels.  If  it  is 
so  lovely  by  daylight,  think  what  it  must  be 


all  aglitter  with  diamond  dust  in  the  gray 
shine  of  stars ! 

Here  the  ground  is  thick  with  buckeyes. 
Steal  one  when  nobody  is  looking,  and  slip 
it  into  your  pocket  to  ward  off  rheumatism. 
If  anybody  sees,  the  charm  is  broken.  Take 
a  handful  of  crab-apples,  too,  for  perfume. 
They  will  smell  of  the  wilds  while  they  keep 
a  drop  of  juice.  Gather  silk-weed  pods  for 
luck.  The  darkies  say  that  if,  when  they 
burst  into  a  torrent  of  white  floss,  your 
breath  will  not  blow  it  away,  good  fortune 
will  abide  with  you  till  the  silk -weed  is 
again  in  seed.  Flowers  are  scarce  enough 
to  be  precious.  This  cluster  of  blue  gen- 
tian blooming  in  the  thicket  brings  joy  in- 
deed. Bear  it  home  in  triumph ;  and  if  you 
care  for  curious  forms,  go  through  the  deep 
oak-wood,  and  dig  up  a  clump  of  wax-white 
Indian-pipe  as  well.  Take  along  some  of 
its  native  earth,  and  plant  the  flower,  that 
is  without  leaf  or  root,  in  a  low,  flat  bowl. 
Wreathe  it  with  oak-leaves  and  fern,  and  lay 
a  handful  of  scarlet  sumach  so  the  Indian- 
pipes  will  peep  up  through  it ;  or  if  you  are 
weary  of  the  color  riot,  leave  the  earth  bare 
except  for  a  few  acorns  and  acorn  cups. 
The  over-cup,  fringed  half  an  inch  deep 
about  the  edge,  is  handsomest  of  all.  Fail- 


192 

ing  that,  white -oak  or  post -oak  will  do  ex- 
cellently well. 

Through  clays  of  splendid  languor  the 
south  wind  blows  on  to  dawns  of  mist, 
wherein  spectral  trees  weep  slow  tears. 
Each  grass-blade  wears  a  diamond.  Rab- 
bits frisk  and  nibble  in  dew-dim  clover.  At 
the  far  verge  a  red-bird,  aperch  on  a  tall, 
swaying  weed,  swings  and  sings,  and  at  last 
flies  away.  Wood-doves,  in  clouds,  hover 
and  settle  in  the  corn-field.  A  flight  of 
larks  preen  their  yellow  breasts,  and  chatter 
noisily  in  the  big,  bare  sassafras  that  has 
been  a  hedge-row  landmark  this  many  a 
year.  Out  of  the  mist  above  comes  the  ap- 
pealing cry  of  a  young  hawk.  He  is  lost  in 
the  world  of  vapor,  and  calls  for  his  elders. 
Something  glimmers  in  the  grass  too  ten- 
derly yellow  for  the  hue  of  decay.  A  dan- 
delion, too  impatient  to  await  the  spring, 
has  flung  wide  its  unminted  gold.  That 
means  sunshine  within  the  hour.  The 
flower  never  opens  in  face  of  persistent 
clouds.  Even  now  the  ghostly  glamour 
fades,  a  ball  of  red  fire  swims  overhead,  the 
low  sky  lifts,  and  an  every-day  world  lies 
smiling  up  to  its  maker  and  builder. 


IN  AT  THE   DEATH 


,HREE  o'  the  clock.  A  wester- 
ing moon  makes  cloudy  silver 
over  all  the  sky.  Now  and 
again,  through  rifts  overhead, 
long  pale  lights  dance,  drift 
athwart  the  world,  chasing  one  the  other  in 
spectral  fashion.  The  fresh  earth  lies  dew- 
damp,  plentifully  besprinkled  with  the  big 
bright  tears,  distilled  from  this  warm  mist, 
through  every  bough  and  twig.  Clothe  you, 
and  stir  abroad.  Singeth  not  the  ballad- 
monger, 

' '  A  southerly  wind  and  a  cloudy  sky, 
Doe  proclaime  it  a  huntynge  morning "  ? 

In  such  an  one,  no  doubt,  George  Washing- 
ton, Esq.,  set  forth,  when,  as  his  diary  re- 
cords, he  "  went  a-hunting  with  Jacky  Cus- 
tis,  and  catched  a  fox."  Listen  at  the  river- 
ford  the  splash  and  beat  of  hoofs.  Now 
the  long  note  of  mellow-winded  horns  comes 
strongly  up-wind,  undervoiced  with  a  whim- 
13 


194 

paring  chorus  of  yelps  and  cries.  The  fox- 
hunters  are  out.  Not  garish  gentlemen  in 
"pink  and  leathers,"  with  huntsmen,  whip- 
pers-in,  and  all  the  rest.  Instead,  men  of 
the  soil  —  owners,  tillers  —  each  with  his 
hounds  at  heel — a  couple,  or  two  or  three. 
See  them  sweep  up  the  dusk  valley,  where 
each  cross-road  and  farm-gate  sends  out  a 
new  rider.  It  was  reveille,  indeed,  that  the 
hunter's  horn  sounded  under  this  waning 
moon. 

What  riders  !  Such  as  they  gave  rise  to 
the  fabled  Centaurs.  What  if  they  know 
never  a  trick  of  manege,  of  the  schools, 
where  else  shall  you  find  such  hand,  such 
seat,  horse  and  rider  so  entirely,  so  harmo- 
niously, at  one  ?  It  is  a  rhythm  of  motion, 
wherein  grace  has  wedded  strength.  Look 
well  at  the  black  colt  and  his  master.  Mark 
the  fire,  the  spirit,  of  the  beast — his  fine,  up- 
lifted head  ;  his  arching  neck,  with  its  thin, 
silky,  tossing  mane  ;  his  clean,  flat  legs  and 
streaming  tail,  that  the  wind  sweeps  out  as  a 
very  pennon  of  night.  The  creature  is  not 
bridle -wise.  Less  than  a  month  back  he 
knew  not  bit  or  rein,  or  lash  or  steel.  But 
one  rider  has  ever  crossed  his  back — the 
lean  young  athlete  there,  who  sits  him  so 
light,  so  firm,  so  easily  swaying,  bends  him 


195 

to  his  will  with  a  wrist  of  iron,  yet  pats  and 
soothes  as  he  might  a  frightened  child. 

Sweetness  and  strength  !  That  is  all  the 
magic.  The  rein  is  a  channel  through 
which  intelligence  goes  most  subtly.  Fear, 
anger,  nervousness,  flash  along  it  to  the  ten- 
der mouth — set  up  their  counterparts  in  the 
poor  beast.  So,  too,  do  strength,  courage, 
radiant  good  will.  The  black  colt  knows 
his  rider — feels  him  vividly  to  the  core  of 
his  quick  intelligence — will  serve  him  un- 
questioning to  the  limit  of  speed  and  stay. 

Each  is  a  type.  See  them  forge  ahead, 
the  dogs,  meantime,  running  in  leaping  cir- 
cles through  field  and  wood  either  hand. 
What  lank,  lithe  creatures  they  are — you 
see  plainly  the  play  of  muscles  under  their 
silken  coats.  No  kennelled  darlings  they, 
racing,  fine-drawn,  with  coats  and  pedigrees 
of  newest  fashion.  Yet  their  blood  is  rich 
and  old.  For  two  hundred  years  the  south 
country  has  ridden  to  their  like — blue-mot- 
tled, black-and-tan, 

' '  With  ears  that  sweep  away  the  morning  dew, 
Crook -kneed    and    dew -lapped    like    Thessalian 

bulls. 

Slow    in    pursuit,    but    matched    in    mouth    like 
bells." 

A  whimpering  challenge  comes  sharply 


196 

from  the  left.  Nobody  heeds  it — it  is  only 
the  puppy  out  for  a  first  run,  as  yet  scarce 
knowing  the  scent  he  seeks.  Most  like  he 
is  trailing  a  rabbit — but  no,  what  bell-note 
echoes  him?  Rattler,  king  of  the  pack, 
cries  loud  and  free.  Sounder,  Ring,  Speak- 
er, Lovelocks,  Lady — all  the  rest  break  out 
in  thrilling  jangle,  set  all  the  valley  aring. 
Up,  up  it  swells,  truly  a  jocund  noise,  under 
these  pale,  low  clouds,  this  watery  moon, 
this  reddening  east.  They  are  headed  up 
wind  ;  the  cool  air  comes  back  to  you  heavy 
freighted  with  the  wild  music.  Hoof-beats 
sound  sharply  through  it.  The  black  colt 
is  but  a  fence  behind  from  the  leading 
hound?  What  sharp,  exultant  shrilling 
comes  out  from  his  rider's  throat !  All 
the  hunt  is  whooping,  yelling,  as  it  streams 
through  dusk  of  dawn.  A  wild  crying,  in- 
deed! — one  never  yet  subjugate  by  mere 
vowels  and  consonants — one,  too,  that,  like 
the  seat  on  horseback,  must  be  learned 
in  childhood,  practised  sedulously  through 
youth. 

They  would  laugh  to  scorn,  these  bold 
rough-riders,  your  "Stole  a-wa-ay!  Hark 
for-rard  !  Tally-ho  !" — though  they  come  of 
the  blood  that  knew  all  niceties  of  venery — 
so  shouted  when  the  fox  broke  cover,  "Tail- 


197 

Us  hors"  otherwise,  out  of  the  thicket. 
All  those  dead-and-gone  gentlemen  of  Eng- 
land's good  greenwood  now  are  but  dry-as- 
dust  ghosts,  for  all  their  prowess  and  splen- 
dor. Their  sport  lives  with  their  race. 
Shorn  though  it  be  of  form  and  conse- 
quence, it  might  warm  the  cockles  of  their 
fleshless  hearts  to  see  in  what  lusty  strength 
these  slips  of  English  stocks  keep  up  the 
pastime  of  old  days.  The  old  order  chang- 
eth — the  natural  man  survives.  While  time 
endures,  this  Saxon,  whether  of  the  old  world 
or  the  new,  shall  love,  as  he  loves  naught 
else  in  life's  gift,  the  flash  and  leaping  of 
trout  lured  to  death  in  still  pools,  the  sing- 
ing of  bullets  sped  straight  and  well,  the 
breathless  ardors  of  the  chase,  the  race. 

Master  Fox  has  doubled.  Now  the  full  cry 
rings  down  wind.  See  the  dogs  tumbling, 
writhing,  over  that  crooked  fence.  They 
have  been  running  almost  on  view — heads 
up,  tails  down — so  close  upon  their  quarry 
there  was  no  need  to  lay  nose  to  the  tainted 
herbage  he  had  crossed.  They  caught  the 
scent  hot  in  the  air.  All  the  hunters  knew 
it  when  they  heard  the  last  wild  burst  of 
furious  dog -music.  So,  hearing,  they  sat 
straighter  in  the  saddle,  gave  their  good 
beasts  the  spur.  A  little  while,  and  they 


198 

would  be  in  at  the  death— the  next  field, 
certainly  the  next  hill-side,  must  bring  it. 

So  they  crash  pell-mell  over  the  low  road- 
side fence,  as  the  hounds  top  the  high  one 
bounding  the  pasture  -  land.  Still  Rattler 
leads,  with  Sounder  at  his  collar.  But  see 
them  stop  short,  fling  noses  to  wind,  set  up 
a  whimpering  cry — all  the  pack  is  at  fault. 
Master  Fox  is  passing  cunning  —  either 
he  has  dodged  back  under  the  horses'  feet, 
or  hidden  him  so  snug  the  dogs  have  over- 
run him.  See  the  good  creatures — all  lath- 
ery, panting,  with  lolling  tongues — run  crying 
about  the  field,  dazed  out  of  all  weariness 
by  this  astounding  check. 

A  minute — two — three — still  the  trail  is 
lost.  There  is  babel  of  yelps  and  shouting, 
each  master  calling  loudly  to  his  most  trusted 
hound.  The  black  colt  champs  on  the  bit, 
frets  lightly  against  the  rein.  This  ringing 
run  has  but  well  breathed  him — the  noise  of 
it  has  set  his  wild  blood  afire.  Or  ever 
again  hound  shall  bark,  horn  shall  blow 
about  him,  he  will  follow,  follow,  with,  with- 
out, a  rider.  How  fine  the  daylight  shows 
him.  Sunrise  is  past,  though  no  yellow 
beam  stabs  through  this  woolly  sky.  The 
hunters  will  breakfast  late,  if  they  hold  their 
purpose  to  kill  before  it.  A  horn  breaks 


1 99 

faintly  out,  is  instantly  away  from  lip,  and 
all  the  field  in  motion. 

Master  Fox  is  cunning,  but  Lovelocks 
is  cunninger.  See,  she  has  followed  the 
fence  a  hundred  yards  up  wind,  picked  up 
the  trail  where  he  leaped  to  earth  after  run- 
ning along  the  rails,  and  is  after  him,  call- 
ing, with  all  her  deepest  notes,  to  man  and 
hound  to  follow  and  save  the  honor  of  the 
field.  Beautiful,  beautiful — see  how  straight 
she  goes  !  Her  fellows,  streaming  after,  can 
do  no  more  than  yelp,  as  with  big,  leaping 
bounds  they  devour  the  grassy  space.  Ah  ! 
Master  Fox,  tricks  will  not  serve  you,  save 
you.  You  have  run  gallantly,  but  Love- 
locks will  not  be  left  behind.  Nearer,  ever 
nearer,  she  comes  to  the  dark,  sweated,  hunt- 
ed thing,  that  seems  a  mere  shadow  on  the 
grass  in  front  of  her,  so  straight,  so  skim- 
ming, is  its  steady  flight.  Brush  down, 
tongue  out,  he  toils,  pants,  away.  If  he  can 
but  reach  the  woods,  his  rocky  den  is  in  the 
hill-side  just  beyond.  To  it  he  strains — yet 
never  shall  he  gain. 

Almost  Lovelocks  is  on  him  —  her  hot 
breath  overruns  him ;  he  swerves  —  darts 
aside — doubles — but  all  in  vain.  Ring  is 
at  Lovelocks'  shoulder,  Rattler  a  yard  away, 
with  twenty  more  at  back,  the  black  colt 


2OO 


treading  almost  upon  their  tails.  Quickly, 
cruelly,  their  jaws  close  on  Master  Fox ;  the 
black  horseman  snatches  him-away,  sends 
a  wild  yell  down  wind,  blows  a  long  blast 
of  his  horn.  Lovelocks  leaps  up  for  a  pat 
from  his  hand,  stands  aquiver  with  delight 
as  he,  her  master,  flings  the  carcass  at  her 
feet  before  the  eyes  of  all  the  field. 


GATHERING  CORN 


>LOW  fair,  blow  free,  O  wind  of 
the  west!  Set  the  bare  trees 
all  arocking  in  this  world  of 
haze.  Blue  it  lies,  foldless, 
swathing.  Up  into  it,  far  to 
south,  swims  a  globe  of  red  fire.  This  fine, 
blue,  clinging  Omphale  has  shorn  heaven's 
Hercules  of  beams,  drinks  his  light  into  her 
spaces,  drips  it  down,  a  warm,  pale  shining, 
over  the  frosted  fields.  They  lay  glistering 
white  at  day's  dawn,  thick-sown  in  all  their 
breadth  with  fine,  sharp,  pricking  crystals, 
crunching  under -foot  as  though  you  trod 
down  a  fairy  host  at  guard. 

Black  frost,  say  farmer-folk,  foreshadow- 
ing the  mark  of  it.  Timely,  full  of  use. 
Now  apples  shall  part  freely  from  the  bur- 
dened boughs,  and  come  to  the  palate  with 
a  new,  fresh  tang,  infinitely  delicious.  Now 
all  the  stubble's  weedy,  creeping  riff-raff 
shall  be  as  smoking  flax  before  the. plough, 
no  more  to  choke  and  hinder  the  turning  of 


202 


fallow  fields.  Now,  too,  corn  in  the  ear 
hangs  flint-hard — nowhere  any  sap  in  stalk, 
or  root,  or  leaf. 

Come  away  to  the  gathering !  Not  from 
the  shock.  There,  it  is  mere  prosaic  snatch- 
ing of  ear  from  husk,  with  by  and  by  a  noisy 
rattle  of  wagons,  a  quick  tossing  in — the 
baldest  commonplace  of  labor.  Instead, 
you  shall  go  afield — in  standing  corn — cross- 
ing to  reach  it  wheat-land  late  sown,  and 
faintly  pierced  with  tenderest,  new,  small 
spears,  each  with  a  diamond  on  his  tip, 
stolen  by  this  warm  light  from  the  vanish- 
ing frost.  Beyond  is  the  first  sowing — a 
green  luxuriance,  matted,  dripping,  thick 
and  tall  enough  to  hide  a  rabbit— a  hun- 
dred, indeed,  if  so  many  there  sought  refuge. 
Now  you  come  to  the  bars.  See  how  snug 
they  are  laid  to  one  side,  quite  out  the  way 
of  wheels.  Not  till  night  drops  down  will 
they  rest  again  in  socket.  All  day  this 
small,  dark  person  of  fluttering  jacket  and 
baggy  trousers  will  sit  here  "minding  the 
gap,"  presumably  seeing  to  it  that  no  va- 
grant cow,  no  acquisitive  hog,  passes  this 
open  portal  to  spoil  the  corn  within. 

Monotonous,  you  think.  He  would  hard- 
ly agree.  He  has  a  knife  with  one  real  cut- 
ting blade — his  bird-trap  wants  a  trigger — 


2O3 

here  in  this  vigilant  solitude  he  may  hack 
and  notch  and  shape  to  his  heart's  content, 
unvexed  with  pestering  mites  of  brothers, 
sisters,  who  at  home  give  him  no  peace. 
Besides,  he  rides  Here  in  the  wagon — a  full 
half-mile.  An  imposing  chariot  truly,  withal 
gaudy— gaudier  even  than  strong.  Wheels, 
and  running-gear  shine  scarlet  as  sin ;  the 
lower  body  is  green,  striped  red  and  white, 
and  topped  with  gay  yellow  side -boards 
that  double  its  depth. 

What  rocking  bliss  to  stand  peeping 
above  them !  The  vehicle  has  never  a 
spring.  With  the  team  at  the  trot,  what 
shaking  of  passengers  —  what  bouncing, 
bumping,  of  whosoever  dares  sit.  The 
proper  thing  is  to  ride  standing — feet  wide 
and  hard-set  upon  the  buffeting  foundation. 
If  you  can  but  compass  it,  you  may  go  with- 
out turning  a  hair,  though  the  mules  race^ 
uphill,  down  dale,  across  cloddy  levels.  Six 
of  the  good  creatures — gayly  pranked  out, 
with  bright  chains  all  aclank,  with  harness 
supple  and  well-oiled.  Evidently  Jim,  the 
wagoner,  loves  his  team  next  himself — bet- 
ter in  some  points  it  may  be.  Every  head- 
stall has  a  wrapping  of  the  gayest  scarlet, 
the  big,  black  wheelers  flaunt,  each  at  his 
ear,  a  silver-white  ox-tail.  The  clean-limbed 


2O4 


sorrels  at  the  pole  wear,  instead,  boughten 
tassels.  Far  in  front  the  trim  dun  leaders 
show  brown-ringed  coon-tails  at  the  bridle- 
ear,  nodding  with  each  quick  stride.  So 
Jim,  the  wagoner,  has  warded  off  "  conjur- 
ing ;"  made  it  sure,  in  his  own  mind,  his 
team  shall  thrive,  pull  true  to  the  last  ounce, 
nor  balk  in  the  dark  at  sight  of  ghosts.  Jim 
is  innocent  of  book-learning,  has  never 
heard  of  a  fairy  —  yet  what  he  does  not 
know  of  mules,  of  "  spells,"  is  scarce  worth 
the  telling. 

Wagoning,  too.  A  science  that,  you  may 
take  my  word.  See  him  sit  so  straight,  so 
light,  in  the  saddle,  there,  on  the  nigh  wheel- 
er's back,  his  long  whip  limply  trailing,  his 
single  rein  half  clutched.  The  road  turns 
sharply  through  the  open  bars — so  sharply 
you  think  a  single  span  would  have  a  care  of 
passing  it — how  much  more  this  long-drawn 
team.  To  Jim  and  his  sort  it  is  less  than 
nothing.  A  quick  wrist  motion,  two  sharp 
cracks  of  the  whip  in  air — unchecked  the 
leaders  swing  to  the  turn ;  the  wheelers  fol- 
low;  an  inner  wheel  lifts  a  little,  grinds 
hoarsely,  drops  to  earth,  whirls  inside  the 
field,  missing  by  a  foot  the  nigh  post,  against 
which  it  seemed  to  you  it  must  certainly  go 
full-tilt.  This  trick  of  wrist  and  eye — this 


205 

poising  calculation — is  the  perfectness  of 
practice  joined  to  natural  aptitude.  Wag- 
oners, like  poets,  are  born,  not  made.  Jim 
was  in  the  saddle,  master  of  whip  and  rein, 
long  before  his  bare  toes  could  reach  a  stir- 
rup's length.  Not  under  compulsion,  either. 
He  loves  the  work — it  is  in  the  blood.  His 
white-headed  great-grandfather — toothless, 
tottering — delights  still  to  tell  to  all  who  will 
listen  of  long  trips  across  sand  and  clay  in 
"  ole  Ferginey  "  highways,  hauling  ole  mars- 
ter's  crops  the  hundred  miles  to  tide-water. 
His  son  drove  head  of  the  emigrant-train 
across  the  Blue  Ridge  into  this  new  land  of 
promise ;  his  grandson  piloted  the  carriage 
through  peaceful,  prosperous  days.  Though 
Jim  has  been  born  to  freedom,  hereditary 
traditions,  inclinations,  are  not  less  strong. 
He  feels  him,  none  the  less,  born  into  the 
place  of  plantation  wagoner — would  be  half 
heart-broken  if  another  had  his  seat. 

His  mules — his  by  love,  not  possession 
— rarely  know  the  touch  of  whip — the  long, 
leathern  snake — writhing,  coiling,  snapping 
almost  with  noise  of  pistol-shot,  in,  around, 
over  them.  The  sound  of  it  is  to  them  as 
the  noise  of  drum  and  trumpet  to  soldiers 
on  parade.  Its  quaverings,  flourishes,  mean 
to  them,  Go !  Halt !  Trot !  Steady !  Hold 


206 


back !  Pull  for  life  !  They  know  their  driver, 
too — well  enough,  indeed,  now  and  again  to 
take  a  freakish  liberty,  presuming  on  his 
soft  heart.  He  gives  to  them  sweet  hay, 
clean  beds,  sound  corn,  sweet  water,  the  best 
of  grooming,  the  nicest  adjustment  of  strap 
and  chain.  He  gets  of  them  a  faithful 
strength  that  moves  mountainous  loads,  let 
ways  be  never  so  sticky,  so  foul. 

He  knows  their  strength — and  never  asks 
the  impossible.  "  Done  gimme  all  dey  got 
— cain't  do  no  mo',"  he  would  say,  in  the 
thrice-impossible  event  of  stalling  with  a 
load.  To-day  he  works  them  full  strength. 
The  corn-land  earth  is  light— the  corn  extra 
heavy.  Before  he  has  driven  twice  the  fields' 
length  the  wheels  will  crush  deep  in  the  mel- 
low soil.  See  him  swing  the  wagon  across 
a  row,  the  tall  stalks  crashing,  crushing  to 
earth.  How  heavy  the  ears  fall !  how  high 
they  hang  in  the  rows  either  side !  what 
rain  of  them  the  four  gatherers  toss  rever- 
berant in  the  bed !  Each  pulls  two  rows, 
snapping  off  the  long  ears  with  one  dexter- 
ous turn  of  wrist  that  leaves  the  coarse 
outer  husk  still  fluttering  from  the  stalk. 
How  they  pile  in  mounding  heaps,  as  the 
wagon  moves  slow— each  mule  of  the  six 
nibbling  as  it  pleases  him  at  such  ears  as 


207 


hang  in  reach.  How  lithe  and  sleek  they 
stand  ! — wise-looking  creatures  and  meek — 
something  humorous  withal  in  the  wag  of 
their  solemn  ears.  Evidently  corn-gathering 
is  an  occasion.  Manes  are  roached,  tails 
banged  to  a  hair — even  the  ears  trimmed 
inside  till  you  see  the  play  of  vein  and 
muscle  lying  just  under  the  clipped,  silky 
skin.  They  will  have  no  more  careful  toilet 
upon  Christinas  Eve,  when  all  the  plantation 
folk,  small  and  great,  will  ride  behind  them 
to  town  to  make  ready  for  the  day. 

How  brave  the  west  wind  blows  !  Speech 
is  drowned  —  over-voiced  in  the  rustle  of 
dry  blade  and  tassel.  The  load  grows  as 
by  magic.  Twice  Jim  has  tramped  it  firm 
in  the  corners.  Yet  still  it. lies  at  middle 
high  above  the  wagon-sides.  And  the  field's 
round  is  not  once  made.  At  this  rate  there 
will  be  corn  and  to  spare — a  wide  abun- 
dance presaging  plenty,  profit,  for  all  who 
live  by  the  land.  To  them  corn  is  basilar. 
It  means  not  merely  bread,  but  meat  and 
milk,  and  sleek,  strong  teams ;  strength  in 
winter;  speed  for  the  plough.  A  bursting 
crib  is  the  husbandman's  best  backer — one 
by  whose  grace  he  may  look  fortune  square 
in  the  eye,  and  blench  not,  if  perchance  for 
the  minute  she  frown. 


208 


Somewhat  of  the  jewel,  is  there  not,  in 
these  slender,  long  ears,  so  silken  of  husk, 
so  thick-set  with  shining,  flint-pearl  grains  ? 
They  hang  four,  five  even,  to  the  stalk. 
What  wonder  the  wagon -bed  so  quickly 
overflows.  This  is  the  grain  for  bread — the 
true  "  Little  Willis."  Properly  shelled  and 
ground  it  gives  meal  as  round,  as  pearly,  as 
fairy  hail,  of  the  wholesoinest  sweet — the 
one  corn  truly  to  make  one  in  love  with  its 
bread.  Now  and  again  it  yields  a  red  ear 
— otherwise  there  is  no  stain  of  color  save 
the  slender,  dull-red  cob. 

Jim  has  swung  away,  full  run,  for  the  crib, 
all  his  simple  soul  elate  over  such  abound- 
ing harvest.  Almost  before  you  dream  it 
he  will  be  back,  eager  as  a  child  to  measure 
the  depth  of  his  good-fortune.  Leave  him 
to  the  joy  of  fulness  here  in  the  swale. 
Come  away  to  the  creek-side.  Either  hand 
the  bottoms  have  been  corn-fields  time  out 
of  mind.  This,  the  near  one,  has  held  its 
gatherers  many  a  day.  There  the  fatting 
hogs  have  rioted  since  late  September  days. 
What  tangle  it  lies  now,  of  bent  stalks,  of 
nipped  pea -vines,  of  fresh -rooted  earth! 
The  smooth,  fat,  small-eyed  creatures  lie  at 
ease,  lazily  grunting,  in  beds  of  sweet  earth. 
Fifty — sixty  —  maybe  more.  No  wonder 


209 

they  have  stripped  this  field.  See,  across 
the  stream  another  wagon  is  making  haste 
to  supply  their  clamorous  throats. 

What  big,  round  ears  it  bears ;  yellow  as 
gold,  wrinkled  all  over  the  face  of  them. 
With  their  big,  coarse  cobs,  their  spongy 
texture,  their  ungainly  -  bulk,  they  seem 
scarcely  of  kin  to  the  slender  flint  corn. 
Yet  what  depth  of  hue  is  theirs !  The  yel- 
low of  them  is  splashed,  dotted,  made  alive 
with  the  blackest  crimson,  most  glowing 
strawberry  scarlet,  with  purple  to  shame 
the  amethyst's  deep  heart.  It  is  not  pearls 
that  shall  be  cast  before  these  swine.  In- 
stead, something  richer,  more  colorful — also, 
no  doubt,  much  more  to  their  mind. 

Andrew,  the  cropper,  has  fetched  in  this 
load.  The  rig  is  his  own — one  that  moves 
Jim  to  the  liveliest  derision.  A  sway-backed 
brood-mare  makes  half  the  team,  a  small, 
wicked -looking,  unkempt  mule  the  other. 
The  wagon's  four  wheels  began  life  each  as 
part  of  a  different  vehicle.  The  bed  is  an- 
other survival — apparently  of  the  unfittest. 
Yet  Andrew  eyes  both  with  the  pride  of 
possession — walking  solemnly  behind,  while 
his  small  son,  aperch  on  the  load,  shouts, 
"Gee-up!"  and  "Haw-w-dar!  Whut  ye 
doin'  now7  ?"  with  much  jerking  of  rope-reins. 
14 


210 


Looking  closer,  you  see  he  sits  on  the  merest 
smattering  of  corn.  Underneath  are  pump- 
kins, kershaws  —  yellow  and  green,  round, 
oblong,  with  necks,  without — from  the  big- 
ness of  your  head  to  that  of  a  bushel  meas- 
ure. Now  the  cloyed  hogs  shall  have  a 
dainty  dish  indeed.  See  the  rush  to  rend 
and  fall  upon  it,  tooth  and  hoof.  Andrew 
looks  on  with  a  darkly  satisfied  smile, 
muttering  the  while,  "  Poun's  er  fat  dar, 
gent'emen — poun's  er  fat  in  dat  load.  Lek 
de  Bible  say,  you  eat  an'  squeal  metty 
brash — you  gwine  die,  not  ter-morrer,  but 
soon  as  de  moon  gits  right." 

This  is  to  friend  Andrew  the  glory,  the 
inner  meaning,  of  all  these  autumn  days. 
Racing  by,  they  bring  hog-killing — Christ- 
mas— the  plenteous,  the  merry,  clasp  to  his 
year  of  toil. 

The  sun  stands  straight  overhead ;  the 
wind  drops  ;  the  haze  thickens.  Yellow  cre- 
puscular light  lies  soft  upon  the  world— the 
world  so  adrowse  in  this  thick,  warm  air. 
Last  night  was  the  third  of  frost.  Now 
there  shall  come,  most  like,  days  of  long, 
rolling  cloud ;  of  sparse,  dripping  rain  ;  of 
south  wind  softer  than  the  summer  knew. 
Earth  will  lie  sodden,  sopping  wet,  a  quag- 
mire to  wheel  and  hoof.  When  again  the 


211 


west  wind  dries  out  the  corn,  Jim  will  say, 
as  he  stands  harnessing  at  morning,  to  An- 
drew, the  cropper,  "  Putty  rough  on  yo'  spike- 
team,  Brer  Andrew — dis  yere  rain ;  but  my 
mules — oh,  shucks  !  man,  'taint  no  mud  can 
stop  dem — not  dis  side  whar  daddy  lived 
— back  yonder  in  ole  Ferginey." 


A   HUNTER'S  MOON 


iRULY  there  is  magic  in  it.  So 
high,  so  white,  it  hangs,  the 
flooding  silver  of  it  washing 
out  to  dun  pallor  all  the  lin- 
gering scarlet  and  yellow,  and 
purple  and  flame,  of  this  late  autumn  world. 
The  charmed  wind  lies  in  leash.  Nor  breath, 
nor  ripple,  stirs  in  the  low  leaf  or  the'  high. 
From  the  runnels  mists  creep  slow  and 
slower,  to  lie  in  long,  straight  wefts  above 
the  chilling  earth.  Now  turf  and  weeds  are 
damp,  glistering  with  fine  beads  that  in 
sunrise  shall  show  as  frost.  Through  the 
hush  a  lone,  late  cricket  chirps  desolately 
faint.  Far  and  faint  from  the  wood's  deep 
heart  the  owls  send  out  their  shouting 
"  whoo-whoo-whoo-whoo-hoo-oo !" 

For  all  that,  'tis  no  moon  for  sighing — 
this  jocund  orb,  swimming  up  the  east.  It 
showed  crescent,  ran  to  quarter  in  the 
nights  of  gay  October.  Now,  at  full,  it 
lights  the  sere  fields,  the  thinning  woods — 


a  true  hunter's  moon,  by  help  of  whose  shin- 
ing you  shall  take  and  spoil  the  wild  creat- 
ures that  walk  abroad  by  night. 

Sport  of  the  rarest,  an  you  have  true 
hunting  blood.  Without  it  the  night  shall 
not,  for  you,  be  filled  with  music ;  indeed, 
you  are  like  to  get  nothing  but  weariness  of 
body,  vexation  of  spirit.  Given  so  much  of 
primal  savagery  life  holds  few  pleasures  to 
match  the  glimpses  of  such  a  moon. 

See  !  Black  Daddy  is  waiting  in  the  cabin 
door,  his  burly  bigness  sharply  silhouetted 
by  the  red  fire -shine  inside.  He  leans 
heavily  on  an  axe,  fresh  from  the  grind- 
stone, holds  a  half-dozen  unlit  splint  torches 
lightly  under  one  arm.  A  brindled  dog, 
with  ridiculous  short  tail,  crouches  at  his 
feet,  seemingly  supine,  yet  with  every  sense 
alert.  Outside,  the  clear  moon-rays  show  a 
smaller  black  fellow — so  dark,  his  eyes  shine 
fiery-green  from  under  his  low  lashes.  He 
sits  very  upright,  his  bow-legs  making  queer, 
bulging  shadows  on  the  turf — head  aside, 
ears  sharply  cocked,  tail  faintly  aquiver. 
Each  fibre  of  him  stands  at  attention.  Axe, 
torches,  are  to  him  language  visible — he  has 
no  mind  to  be  left  out  of  the  sport  they 
foreshow. 

Black  Daddy  loves  his  dogs— better,  al- 


214 

most,  than  himself.  By  the  hour  he  will 
tell  you  tales  of  them — Music  and  Damsel. 
Days  through,  they  run  at  his  heels ;  nights 
through,  they  watch  outside  his  door.  Price- 
less both,  though  the  one  is  but  a  lurching 
mongrel,  the  other  a  cross  -  bred  hound. 
Dogs  of  renown  both,  spite  such  blots  of  the 
scutcheon.  Music  is  the  better  coon  dog, 
Damsel  has  no  equal  for  trailing  a  possum. 
Both  have  the  finest  keen  noses,  able  to  pick 
up  the  faintest  scent,  and  trail  the  quarry 
hot-foot  to  his  lair. 

Very  often  one  is  taken,  the  other  left  at 
guard.  Naturally  they  hate  each  the  other 
with  deadly  dog-fury.  Music  has  laid  his 
two  paws  over  his  master's  feet,  put  his  head 
between  them,  is  quivering  through  and 
through,  giving  out  the  while  little,  low,  pite- 
ous whimpers,  his  plea  not  to  be  left  behind. 
At  sound  of  it  Damsel,  whose  name  belies  his 
sex,  growls  slightly,  beats  the  earth  more 
vigorously  with  his  tail,  then  rises,  trots  a 
little  way  down  the  path,  looking  back  over 
his  shoulder  to  see  if  he  is  followed.  Now 
he  stops  short,  slinks  backward  half  a  rod. 
The  cabin  door  shuts  to  with  a  great  bang — 
Daddy  stands  fair  in  the  light,  with  Music 
still  glued  to  his  heels,  but  uttering  quick, 
joyful  yelps.  A  breath's  space  Damsel  lis- 


215 

tens,  then  is  off,  with  arrowy  rush,  down  the 
path  to  the  woods. 

Daddy  raises  a  mellow  shout,  the  signal 
of  assembly  to  his  stout  young  followers, 
who  tumble  out,  leaping,  singing,  "patting 
Juba,"  as  though  they  had  not  been  gather- 
ing corn  all  day.  When  he  offers  them 
each  a  torch,  they  set  up  a  great  crying-out, 
and  toss  them  instantly  in  a  handy  fence  cor- 
ner. "  We  not  er  gwine  huntin'  ghos'es — 
an'  de's  'nough  moonshine  fer  coon  er  pos- 
sum," says  the  boldest  malcontent,  running 
away  after  the  dogs. 

Now  the  rest  step  sturdily  out.  Daddy, 
leading,  looks  up  at  the  pale  stars.  There 
he  reads  the  hours.  It  is  nine  o*  the  clock, 
so  dewy-damp  the  scent  must  lie  and  hold, 
even  in  sedge  and  weeds.  The  open  is 
bright  as  the  morning.  It  will  be  two  hours, 
though,  ere  the  moon  stands  straight  enough 
to  light  the  wooded  hill-sides  leading  up  from 
the  creek.  A  rolling  who-whoop  comes 
over  his  lips.  You  hear  a  youngster  say, 
"Dat's  it,  Daddy!  holler  possum."  The 
next  minute  all  have  fetched  a  compass, 
head  straight  for  the  old  field. 

Grapes  abound  there,  persimmons  hang 
sweet  and  plenty.  Master  Graycoat  most 
like  is  afeast  in  it,  with  all  his  sisters,  cous- 


216 


ins,  aunts.  Mark  Damsel's  mad  delight! 
See  him  leap  and  circle — a  black  ghost,  light 
and  swift — wider,  ever  wider,  in  his  round. 
Often  sedge  quite  hides  him,  briers  swal- 
low him  up,  but  nothing  daunts  or  hinders. 
Ah !  he  has  found — hear  the  low,  yelping 
cry  that  Music  so  enviously  seconds.  The 
tones  are  wondrous  individual.  Music's 
note  might  be  all-compact  of  echoes  from 
his  dozen  ancestral  strains.  Blood  tells — 
especially  hounds'  blood.  Damsel's  clear 
belling  sets  all  the  field  aring. 

Hither  and  yon  he  dashes,  nose  to  earth, 
tail  high  and  waving.  Truly,  Master  Pos- 
sum came  in  by  crooked  ways.  The  trail- 
ing dogs  give  tongue  but  sparely,  so  swift, 
so  winding,  do  they  run  along  his  track. 
Around,  across,  it  goes,  now  along  the  crest- 
ing upland,  now  deep  in  the  thick  swales. 
Now  comes  chorus  of  deep  baying.  Dam- 
sel has  treed — there  to  the  right,  in  that 
single  tall  persimmon-tree.  And  look  !  this 
clear  moon  shows  two  of  the  gray  glut- 
tons crouching  close  in  its  slender  upper 
boughs.  No  use  to  try  and  shake  them 
out ;  the  slight  limbs  would  bear  scarce  a 
heavier  weight  than  theirs.  It  is  a  case  for 
the  axes — ah !  how  swift  they  fly.  Almost 
before  the  baying  dogs  catch  breath  the 


217 


slim  tree  crashes  to  earth,  with  two  seem- 
ing-dead creatures  still  fast  in  its  top.  See 
the  long,  bare  tails,  each  coiled  snug  about 
a  limb.  Not  a  quiver,  not  the  turning  of  a 
hair,  though  Damsel  darts  at  one  to  give  it 
an  angry  shake.  Daddy  rescues  it,  his  fel- 
lows the  while  making  the  night-world  ring 
with  shouting.  A  far  hill  catches  the  sound, 
flings  it  back  a  mocking  echo. 
Somebody  begins  to  chant, 

"Oh!  Mister  Possum,  ye  think  ye's  mighty  soon, 
But   ye    sho'  ter  git  cotched   by  de  light   er   de 
moon." 

Daddy  sniffs  at  the  singer.  "  Better  be 
savin'  dat  breff  ter  hole  'im.  Take  dis  yere 
stickful,  boy,  an'  go  gilpin'  'long  home."  At 
the  word  you  see  that  he  has  split  a  stout 
stick,  six  feet  long,  a  little  way  at  either  end, 
put  the  tail  of  a  possum  in  each  cleft,  and 
is  balancing  it  across  the  chanter's  shoul- 
der, little  as  that  person  likes  it.  He  opens 
a  remonstrant  mouth,  but  is  waved  away. 
Daddy  is  autocratic — disobedience  means 
no  more  hunting  with  Music  and  Damsel. 
Hark!  they  have  found  again — Music  this 
time  in  the  lead.  But  how  queerly  they 
run — giving  tongue  faint  and  uncertainly — 
a  perplexed  note,  as  though  saying,  "We 
fear  to  follow  our  noses." 


218 


The  scent  runs  straight — with  now  and 
again  a  gap — as  though  broken  by  a  leap. 
Now  the  dogs  head  for  the  sink-hole,  run- 
ning fast — almost  as  hard  as  they  can  lay 
legs  to  earth.  They  bark  furiously — a  gut- 
tural, angry  note,  different  far  to  the  baying 
of  Master  Possum.  Ah  !  they  have  stopped 
short — there,  beside  that  thick,  thorny  clump 
overhanging  the  earthy  cavern.  See  them 
leaping,  howling,  with  bristles  upright,  with 
gnashing  fangs.  Hist!  Hear  the  spitting 
growls  from  the  thicket.  They  must  come 
from  beast  of  prey,  not  beast  of  game. 
Daddy  listens,  his  head  to  one  side,  mutters 
"  Varmint,"  then  steps  back  to  plan  the  at- 
tack. A  minute  later  he  has  lighted  his 
torch,  and  with  two  men  at  his  back,  armed 
each  with  a  stout  pole,  comes  up  to  the 
angry  dogs.  He  tosses  the  blazing  brand 
far  into  the  thicket,  springs  aside  barely 
in  time  to  escape  something  —  fiery-eyed, 
furious,  strong  of  claw  —  that  leaped  his- 
sing, yowling,  at  his  throat — lies,  savagely 
defiant,  spite  the  blows  rained  over  it,  the 
dogs'  angry  rushes. 

Daddy  speaks  to  them  in  sorrow,  in  an- 
ger. "  Git  erway,  you  fool  dawgs  !  Whut 
done  come  ober  you,  chasin'  cat  dat  erway  ? 
Right  smart  ole  wild-cat  he  is — but  shucks  ! 


219 

I  don'  lek  ter  be  so  fooled."  Music  slinks 
off,  his  tail  betwixt  his  legs.  Damsel  looks 
about  critically,  as  though  to  say,  "  I  knew 
all  the  time  it  was  not  quite  the  thing.  De- 
pend on  it,  alone  I  should  not  have  made 
the  mistake."  The  poor  cat  is  tossed  into 
the  sink-hole's  dark  depth.  Daddy  picks 
up  his  torch,  carefully  puts  out  each  spark 
it  has  left  in  the  tangle,  and  goes  away  to 
the  woodland,  a  faint,  smoky  pennon  trail- 
ing out  behind. 

He  strikes  straight  for  the  river  channel. 
Just  here  a  creek  makes  into  it — the  tall 
timber  abounds  in  hollow  trees,  wherein 
Master  Coon  makes  his  abode.  A  rare 
night-rover  he — lying  sluggish  all  the  day, 
nor  rousing  him  till  darkness  has  covered 
the  face  of  earth.  Now  the  cocks  crow 
midnight ;  straight  moonbeams  pour  white 
through  the  flecked  boughs  above,  and  turn 
all  to  silvern  ghosts  the  woods'  dim  colon- 
nades. Doubtless  he  is  well  abroad — hark ! 
Music  has  found  —  is  running  as  for  life. 
"  Who-oop !  hi-yi-yi-ya !  hunt  him  up,  ole 
dog  !  hunt  him  up  !"  Daddy  yells  at  the  note 
— and  is  chorussed  by  the  rest.  The  sound 
fills  all  the  river-valley,  lying  so  still,  lapped 
in  this  slumberous  calm.  Far  down  it,  on 
the  other  side,  an  answering  shout  breaks 


out.  Other  hunters,  no  doubt  —  all  good 
men  and  true ;  but  never  envy  them — they 
may  have  dogs,  get  game  galore,  but  they 
have  not  Music  and  Damsel,  whom  to  fol- 
low is  a  liberal  education  in  a  coon-dog's 
points. 

The  cry,  the  yelling,  is  their  very  breath 
of  life.  How  wide  Music  runs  !  how  high 
he  leaps,  sniffing  with  lifted  nose,  now  this 
tree,  now  that.  Ah  ha !  Master  Coon  has 
been  found  away  from  home — cut  off  from 
it,  indeed — and  is  making  for  it  through 
the  tree  tops.  Over  there  he  left  the  earth 
— ran  from  bough  to  bough,  from  tree  to 
tree,  till  he  thought  the  trail  safely  broken. 
Music  knew  the  trick  well  —  caught  the 
scent  hot  in  air — has  picked  up  the  trail 
where  Master  Ringtail  came  down — is  after 
him  hot-foot. 

A  breathless  scamper,  truly.  Away ! 
away  !  through  thicket,  through  clear  forest, 
running,  stumbling,  falling,  over  rocks  or 
fallen  timber,  now  resting  for  a  minute,  now 
hasting  as  though  life  lay  in  speed.  Ever 
in  front  to  guide  you,  the  short,  shrill  yelp- 
ings cutting  sharp  through  the  night,  the 
wild  yelling,  the  deep  halloo,  sent  back,  forth, 
from  bank  to  bank.  Now  the  sound  of 
axes,  a  dull  crash,  comes  from  the  hither 


221 


side,  upborne  with  a  shout  of  triumph. 
"  Dey's  cotcht  fus'— but  I  lay  we  gits  de 
bigges'  coon,"  Daddy  says  disdainfully,  in- 
flating his  lungs  for  a  return  halloo.  Be- 
fore it  is  half  out  of  his  throat  a  wild,  full 
barking  fills  all  the  air.  Music  has  treed 
— Damsel  comes  tumbling  over  —  together 
they  leap  and  plunge,  noses  in  air,  flinging 
their  full  cry  up  to  the  branches  above, 
where  lies  Master  Coon,  now  plainly  visible, 
his  green  eyes  shining  hate  of  all  below. 

This  refuge  should  secure  him.  The  tree 
is  two  feet  through — thirty  feet  to  the  first 
limb.  Climbing  is  out  of  the  question. 
Whether  the  coon  is  worth  the  cutting  down 
depends  on  the  strength  of  your  muscles. 
It  is  but  play  for  these  "good  men."  By 
time  you  are  well  breathed,  quick  strokes 
have  sent  the  tree  to  earth.  As  it  falls 
Daddy  gathers  his  beloved  dogs  to  him,  a 
hand  on  either  collar.  "  'Tend  ter  yo'  coon 
yo'se'fs — I  wants  my  dogs  'nother  night," 
he  calls,  holding  hard  the  straining  creat- 
ures, so  madly  eager  to  attack  their  fallen 
foe.  The  good  men  rush  at  it  with  clubs 
and  axes  —  it  darts,  creeps,  leaps,  through 
the  brush,  eludes  their  striving,  and  dashes 
safe  into  the  woods. 

Followed,  it  is  not  overtaken.    Music  runs 


222 


off  on  a  fresh  scent,  trees  in  a  hollow,  and 
sees  the  righting  captive  chopped  out  of  it. 
The  moon  drops  westerly — oars  sound  on 
the  river.  Here  are  hunters  from  the  other 
bank,  come  to  gossip,  join  forces,  and  finish 
up  the  night.  Now,  indeed,  the  chase  shall 
stir  your  blood.  They  have  brought  six 
good  dogs.  All  in  cry,  the  heavens  shall 
overflow.  It  is  find,  follow,  kill — the  first 
cock-crow  sounds.  The  night  has  grown 
chill,  though  the  huntsmen  do  not  feel  it. 
Suddenly  some  one  shivers,  with  a  hint  of 
chattering  teeth.  Make  a  log- fire  on  the 
instant.  The  axemen  are  hewing  hard  at  a 
big  tree  that  looks  to  have  a  handsome  coon 
colony.  Before  it  falls  you  may  warm  you 
through  and  through. 

And  afterward.  While  the  fire  was  abuild- 
ing,  somebody  stole  away,  rifled  a  near  pota- 
to-patch, and  has  filled  the  fire  with  sweet, 
yellow  yams.  The  sight  of  them  brings 
hunger  indeed.  Until  they  are  roasted, 
eaten  piping  hot,  no  foot  will  stir.  Not 
even  Music's  or  Damsel's.  See  how  quiet 
they  lie  by  the  fire,  nose  in  paws,  with  shut 
eyes,  dreaming,  no  doubt,  of  the  night's  vic- 
torious runs.  Beyond,  the  river  ripples,  the 
moon  drops  low  and  lower,  frost  skims  the 
leaves  till  they  rustle  underfoot.  You  tread 


223 

them  as  air.  The  soul  of  the  night,  of  the 
chase,  has  gone  into  your  blood — you  are 
drunken  as  with  new  wine.  Sleep  comes 
to  you  tardily,  but  of  a  sweetness  before 
undreamed — such  sleep  as  truly 

"  Knits  up  the  ravelled  sleave  of  care." 

If  you  wake  late,  what  matter  ?  Daylight 
is  garish,  commonplace — cheaply  exchanged 
in  any  measure  for  such  glamour  of  sound 
and  sight  as  last  night  knew. 


IN   MONOCHROME 


i,OU  come  through  a  world  of 
wailing  to  a  low,  strange  land 
of  death.  The  sky  drops  near 
and  nearer,  apall  with  dun  mist 
that  has  never  a  break,  a  fold; 
a  hint  of  rifting  to  the  blue  beyond.  The 
wind  is  a  long,  keen  sighing,  not  cutting, 
chilling  you  to  the  marrow.  Now  and  again 
it  swells  to  a  sob.  Surely  Nature  hath  set 
herself  at  penance  for  the  waste,  the  spoil- 
ing, of  flower  and  leaf.  See  the  fields  wear 
sackcloth  of  black,  rough  stems.  What  ash- 
es must  lie  under,  upon,  the  wide,  smooth 
breast  of  them,  grinding,  rasping,  till  they 
shiver  and  cry — a  fine,  faint  note  in  this  dun 
Miserere. 

Nowhere  any  softness — any  hint  of  hope 
of  spring.  This  land  knows  never  the 
bloom,  the  brightness,  of  it.  High  summer 
even  is  here  but  a  sun -bright  gray-green 
ghost,  compact  of  thick,  dark  leafage,  of 
dim,  slant  shining  through  dusk  boles  to 


225 

dry,  dead  earth.  One  hand,  the  waste  comes 
down,  the  slant  of  it  bare  and  galled,  criss- 
crossed with  net  of  gullies  through  and 
over  its  pale  clay.  Now  and  again  a  starve- 
ling cedar  has  got  root-hold,  and  leans  des- 
olately atilt  over  the  narrow  yawning.  What 
dull  funereal  hue  the  tree  has !  Seedlings 
but  mid-leg  high  have  no  character  of  youth. 
You  see  age,  sighing  and  sombre,  in  the 
lift,  the  branching,  of  them,  as  plain  as  in 
the  scraggy  parent  stem,  whose  writhen 
boughs  show  gray  and  skeletonwise,  through 
its  sparse  green  tufts,  so  niggardly  beset  with 
blue  berries. 

Pity  the  poor  tree.  Here  it  is  an  alien 
growth.  This  cold  clay  deadens,  stunts  it. 
No  wonder  it  is  forever  sighing  for  the  rich, 
black,  rocky  hill -sides,  where  it  comes  to 
strength,  use,  beauty — such  growth  as  might 
honor  even  cedars  of  Lebanon.  Fate,  in 
shape  of  winter  birds,  set  it  here,  where  life 
is  but  one  long  death ;  where  only  it  cum- 
bers the  waste,  endures  as  best  it  may  the 
burden  of  the  years. 

Nearer  the  swales  wave  plumy  pennons. 
Sedge  covers  them  breast-high,  all  atangle 
with  long  briers  and  wild-creeping  things. 
Up  through  it  dead  mullein  stalks  thrust 
their  tall  stiffness.  All  about  is  a  tossing 


226 


of  gray -brown  furzy  weeds.  From  their 
root  a  dull  thread  of  wetness  steals  through 
the  low,  sour  earth,  out  into  the  space  of  si- 
lence, ruin,  death. 

Here  it  slips  across  the  wood-road.  Have 
a  care.  To  set  foot  on  a  wrong  spot  is  to 
go  knee- deep  in  the  quagmire.  Look  to 
the  other  hand.  There  lies  the  great  swamp. 
This  water  feeds  the  road-side  pond  that  at 
last  drains  away  into  it.  What  sullen,  sul- 
len water  !  So  wide,  so  gray.  The  year  has 
been  wet.  See  how  far  beyond  its  banks  the 
trees  stand  dead — a  high,  whitish  ring  about 
each  trunk.  Water  made  it — sour,  stagnant 
water  that  shut  life  away  from  their  root, 
albeit  they  were  all  growths  of  the  marsh- 
land—  sweet -gum,  water  and  swamp  oak, 
big,  straight-bodied  elms.  Spring  brought 
them  bravely  into  bud — the  rains  descend- 
ed, the  floods  came — the  pond  spread  and 
spread.  For  weeks  it  lapped  their  roots, 
their  trunks — sickness  fell  upon  them — as 
in  a  night  they  withered.  Now  they  stand, 
gray  and  crumbling,  outside  the  deadly  wa- 
ter, a  sere,  sombre  background  for  its  low, 
lapping  shield. 

How  tranced  it  lies,  for  all  this  ruffling 
wind.  You  would  never  dream  that  still 
and  silver  seeming  masked  murder  for  man 


227 

or  beast.  The  water  is  but  barely  breast- 
deep,  with  no  tide,  no  current.  Danger,  sure, 
cannot  lurk  in  aught  so  calm  !  Look  at  it 
again.  The  road  runs  past  it — thirsty  beasts 
might  pause  to  drink  of  its  clear  depth.  Yet 
never  a  hoof -mark  dints  its  soft  margin, 
sparse  wheels  stay  not,  even  the  wild  creat- 
ures keep  them  afar  off. 

You  have  not  thought  what  lies  under — 
quicksand — heavy,  sucking,  holding — of  per- 
ilous depth.  Once  fast  in  it,  you  must  pray 
for  a  bullet,  the  lightning's  flash — any  quick, 
merciful  ending  to  its  gripping  agony.  Ver- 
ily it  is  a  sea  shall  give  up  neither  living 
nor  dead — out  of  which  nothing  comes  ever 
save  Jack  o'  Lantern  to  bewilder  and  be- 
tray. 

He  holds  here  highest  revel.  Of  still, 
warm  nights  you  may  see  his  fairy  lights 
adance  over  all  the  wooded  swamp.  Now 
they  circle  some  huge,  bent  trunk,  now  leap 
bounding  to  the  branches  —  for  the  most 
part,  though,  plod  slow  and  fitful,  as  though 
they  were  indeed  true  lantern  rays,  guiding 
the  night-traveller  by  safe  ways  to  his  goal. 
Master  Jack  is  full  of  treacherous  humor. 
Follow  him  at  your  peril.  He  flies  and  flies, 
ever  away,  to  vanish  at  last  over  the  swamp's 
worst  pitfall,  leaving  you  fast  in  the  mire. 


228 


Wise  folk  say  he  has  no  volition— he  but 
flees  before  the  current  set  up  by  your  mo- 
tion. We  of  the  wood  know  better.  There 
is  method  in  Jack's  madness.  He  knows 
whereof  he  does.  Science  shall  not  for  us 
resolve  him  into  his  original  elements— turn 
him  to  rubbish  of  gases  and  spontaneous 
combustion.  Spite  his  tricksy  treachery, 
he  shall  stay  to  light  fairies  on  their  revels, 
scare  the  hooting  owls  to  silence. 

Come  now  into  the  swamp.  The  waters 
are  shrunken— you  may  walk  dry-shod  from 
root  to  root.  See  them,  writhen,  crawling 
along  the  gray,  hard  earth  — so  hard  and 
smooth  the  leaves  have  rifted  away  in  long, 
deep  ripples.  Here  is  nothing  to  check 
them — no  enlacement  of  low  tangle — only 
the  big,  bare-boiled  trees,  above  these  ser- 
pent roots.  The  winds  at  play  have  left 
earth's  face  all  bare.  About  the  roots  it 
is  powder-dry,  and  hard  and  gray  as  stone. 
Here  and  there  a  low  space  holds  yet  a 
deep,  brown  pool,  so  clear  you  can  see  the 
thready  roots  below,  so  still  it  mirrors  you, 
the  boughs  dark  above,  with  dull,  gray  sky 
behind. 

These  be  remnants  of  spring  waters, 
outer  and  visible  signs  of  depths  and  flow- 
ings  below  that  no  summer  sun  may  touch. 


22Q 

The  first  rain  will  melt  the  crusted  earth, 
set  the  big  roots  creeping  deep  and  deeper 
— make  all  this  mile-long  forest  passable  for 
naught  that  hath  not  wings. 

Winged  things  love  it  not — save,  indeed, 
the  bittern,  who  builds  here  her  nest,  booms 
sullen  over  the  marsh- land  all  the  bright 
summer  through.  Sometimes  the  wood- 
pecker comes  aforaging  —  sometimes,  too, 
the  log -cock  flies  screaming  across  the 
gloom.  Never  any  singing  bird  —  robin, 
red-bird,  thrush,  oriole,  nor  wren.  Now  one 
crow  caws  loud  from  the  pond  to  his  fel- 
lows in  the  swamp.  Far  overhead  a  buz- 
zard circles  on  spread  wings,  settles,  drops, 
as  though  here  he  found  a  feast. 


FRESH  FIELDS  AND  PASTURES  NEW 


ET  down  the  bars.  Corn-gath- 
ering is  over.  Now  Star  and 
Spot,  and  Brandy  and  Daisy, 
Sook,  the  bell-cow,  and  frisky 
young  Blossom  shall  leave 
their  short  grass  for  the  corn-field's  rich 
luxuriance,  there  to  crop  and  nuzzle,  and 
frisk  and  low,  till  the  winds  blow  chillest 
winter.  There  they  may  choose  'twixt  the 
green  herb  and  the  dry.  What  cow  of  good 
taste  loves  not  the  picking  of  the  field? 
The  fine  fresh  shucks  are  toothsome  indeed. 
Besides,  are  there  not  plenteous  tidbits  of 
nubbin — surprises,  now  and  then,  of  the  full 
ear  overlooked  ? 

All  serve  to  sauce  and  savor  the  lush 
green  rye.  Sown  in  August  through  the 
standing  corn,  its  green  mat  hides  the  earth 
— stands  high  about  the  ankle — rich,  ten- 
der, full  of  juice,  a  very  paragon  of  pastur- 
age now  that  the  frost  nips  hard. 

Here,  in  shelter  of  the  corn-stalks,  his  tooth 


231 

has  lost  its  sharpness,  his  breath  its  sting. 
Through  bare  grass -land  the  wind  blows 
keen.  These  sere  ranks,  battered  and  broken 
though  they  be,  hold  him  smartly  at  bay — 
cut  and  shiver  his  legions  to  a  long,  low, 
shrilling  sigh. 

Blow  high  or  low,  these  good  creatures 
take  no  thought  of  him.  See  them  run 
hither  and  yon,  through  the  length,  the 
breadth,  of  it  all,  snatching  here  a  green 
mouthful,  pulling  down  there  a  russet  stalk, 
capering,  lowing,  tossing  the  head  aside, 
madly  joyous,  full  to  overflowing  with  a 
dainty  lust  of  possession. 

Bell-cow  Sook  tries  vainly  to  enforce  her 
right  of  precedence.  All  summer — for  how 
many  summers  ? — she  has  swung  her  tink- 
ling sceptre  at  front  in  all  pastures.  She 
has  led — the  rest  marching  meekly  behind. 
Here,  in  this  late  green  largess,  they  low 
her  quite  to  scorn. 

Mistress  Blossom  even — as  by  right  of  her 
Holstein  blood,  her  staring,  black -patched 
white  coat  —  swings  her  long  tail  imperti- 
nently in  the  bell-cow's  face,  and  meets  the 
avenging  rush  of  her  insulted  monarch  with 
a  strenuous  uplifting  of  heels.  Ah  me ! 
Times  do  change — and  manners  with  them. 
Mistress  Blossom  has  quite  forgot  that  three 


232 

years  back  she,  coming  motherless,  a  bare 
week  old,  to  this  strange  place,  found  in 
Sook,  the  bell-cow,  a  tender  foster-mother, 
amiably  willing  that  the  new  comer  should 
share  with  her  own  calf  her  flow  of  rich,  warm 
milk,  the  rough  side  of  her  licking  tongue. 

Maybe  Brandy's  memory  is  longer.  A 
rich  red  she,  with  faint  roan  markings  on 
back  and  breast  —  a  big,  handsome,  full- 
uddered  creature,  with  character  writ  large  all 
over  her.  See  her  look  of  large-eyed  won- 
der at  the  ingrate  Holstein.  Three  seconds 
she  pauses,  her  mouth  full  of  dropping  green, 
one  fore-foot  in  air,  then,  with  a  bellowing 
snort  of  rage,  she  dashes  at  the  offender, 
pummels  her  soundly  with  rapid  horns,  bears 
her  to  the  knees  in  her  impetuous  rush — 
then  turns  away,  flirting  her  tail,  as  though 
to  say,  "  I  am  all  for  peace — but,  really,  such 
manners  I  never  could  abide." 

Sook,  the  bell -cow,  marches  away  with 
never  a  look  of  thanks  to  her  defender.  No 
doubt  she  is  properly  grateful — but,  oh  !  the 
misery  of  coming  to  need  defence — worse, 
a  thousand -fold,  than  the  original  hurt. 
Brandy  is  a  good  creature— well  meant  and 
all  that.  But — but  she  would  have  done 
better  not  to  see  that  the  power  of  the  seep- 
Besides,  if  she  finds  it 


333 

thus  easy  to  rule,  may  she  not  be  tempted 
to  reign?  That  were,  indeed,  intolerable. 
Better,  a  hundred  times  better,  see  Blossom, 
for  all  her  sins,  usurp  the  crown — the  bell. 
She  has  at  least  the  merit  of  strange,  high 
blood.  Bell-cow  Sook  herself  owns  Devon 
crosses.  Brandy  is  pure  scrub,  albeit  her 
milk  is  the  best,  the  richest,  the  most  plen- 
tiful, of  all  that  comes  to  the  pail. 

Now  from  the  bars  come  loud  bellowings 
• — noise  of  many  hoofs — the  young  cattle  in 
irruption — twenty  steers  and  heifers,  wild 
all  with  this  embarrassment  of  riches.  By 
twos,  by  threes,  they  run,  prancing,  lowing, 
up  to,  around,  each  of  the  milky  mothers, 
now  industriously  at  graze.  What  queer 
noises  rise  up  on  all  sides — cries,  bleating, 
long,  faint  calling.  The  younglings  lock 
horns,  push,  tussle,  fall  prone  to  earth,  pick 
themselves  up,  and  rush  away  after  a  fresh 
antagonist.  All  summer  long  they  have 
grazed  side  by  side.  The  old  pasture  to- 
day would  see  them  dejectedly  peaceful.  It 
must  be  the  sense  of  enlargement— the  sud- 
den freedom  of  this  so  long  guarded  field 
has  gone  to  the  head,  and  set  them  lunatic 
with  joy. 

Brandy  has  spied  amid  the  youngsters 
her  last  year's  calf — a  saucy  red  beauty, 


234 

the  mother  over  again.  With  a  rush  she  is 
beside  the  young  creature,  licking  it  loving- 
ly all  over  the  head  and  ears,  cuddling  it 
under  her  chin  with  a  low,  joyful  moo-oo. 
Then  she  trots  contentedly  to  the  farthest 
edge — the  youngling  close  beside — there  to 
feed  or  lie  in  the  sun  till  the  bars  are  let 
down  and  the  milk-maid's  cry  comes  peal- 
ing over  the  field. 

Black  Betty's  voice  is  clear  and  sweet. 
"  Sook-cow  !  Sook  !  So-ook  !  So-oo-ook  ! " 
she  calls  over  and  over  through  the  waning 
day.  Slow,  heavy,  full-fed,  the  herd  marches 
to  her  behind  the  bell.  They  break  to  awk- 
ward running  at  sight  of  her.  She  holds 
high  the  little  splint  salt-basket,  and  drops 
for  each  a  separate  pinch — "a  lick,"  she 
calls  it — in  some  spot  of  bare  earth  on  the 
hard  outer  road. 

With  what  haste  of  lapping  tongues  they 
devour  it.  Fancy  yourself  full-fed  on  water- 
sweet  herbage — then  think  what  eager  long- 
ing for  the  pungent,  saving  tang.  Brandy, 
in  the  relish  of  it,  forgets  the  young  eyes  so 
wistfully  regarding  her  just  inside  the  bars. 
When  the  last  white  grain  has  vanished,  the 
salt  earth  even  is  scooped,  she  lows  a  good- 
night to  her  big  baby  and  ambles  away  to 
her  small  one. 


235 

Suckling  calves  have  freedom  of  the 
wheat-field.  The  cow-pen  is  there  upon  its 
hither  verge.  See  the  frisking  clamorers 
clustered  outside,  sending  a  chorus  of  bleats 
to  greet  and  hasten  their  homing  mothers. 
Pretty  fellows  !  All  fine  as  silk,  with  gay  red- 
and-white  coats  and  velvet  muzzles.  Saucy, 
too  !  See  them  race  about,  with  tails  curled 
daintily  over  the  back,  a  merry  soft  lighten- 
ing in  the  big  dark  eyes. 

Calling,  answering,  the  cows  come  down 
the  lane.  Half-way  they  break  to  running 
— come  full-tilt  to  the  cow-pen's  gate.  Once 
inside,  each  goes  soberly  to  her  allotted 
place.  Betty  lets  in  a  calf — Brandy's.  Ev- 
idently she  is  prime  favorite  with  the  milk- 
maid. Softly,  deftly,  she  "  suckles  the  calf," 
shifting  his  small,  eager  mouth  from  teat  to 
teat.  As  much  low  milk  as  he  pleases,  so 
he  leaves  her  the  cream.  She  leans  con- 
tentedly against  Brandy's  warm  side,  till 
creamy  froth  ropes  down  from  the  calf's 
quick  mouth.  Then  comes  a  tug  of  war. 
Betty  seizes  both  ears — tugs,  tugs — breaks 
his  hold,  loses  her  own — totters — falls  flat 
— springs  up  with  a  laughing  cry,  again 
muzzles  her  enemy,  wraps  his  head  in  her 
apron,  and  backs  him,  tossing  and  strug- 
gling, to  safe  outer  regions. 


236 

Betty  is  an  artist  in  her  own  line.  See 
how  deftly,  with  what  dainty  touch,  she 
washes  the  udder  clean,  wipes  it  dry,  bathes 
her  two  hands,  sets  a  big  tin  pail  on  the 
ground,  and  begins  to  play  a  tune  in  it  with 
thick,  white,  foamy  streams.  Brandy  stands 
throughout,  the  sum  and  pattern  of  mild- 
eyed  patience.  Once  she  turns  her  head, 
as  if  minded  to  lick  Betty  as  she  licked  her 
calf.  Evidently  she  thinks  better  of  it,  and 
looks  straight  away  into  the  sunset,  through 
the  steam  of  her  fragrant  breath.  Soon  the 
big  white  udder  hangs  limp  and  wrinkled. 
Betty  takes  her  head  out  of  the  hollow  of 
Brandy's  flank  to  say,  as  she  lifts  her  brim- 
ming pail,  "A  pound  er  butter — down  weight 
— every  day  of  de  week,  dat  whut  my  cow's 
good  for — an'  raise  her  calf  too.  Butter 
yaller  as  gole  at  dat.  Tell  me  'bout  Jersey- 
cow  much  as  you  please  ;  ef  any  Jersey  beat 
dat,  I  wish  dey  wus  fotcht  ter  dis  neck  er 
de  woods.  I  heap  ruther  see  it  'an  hear 
talk  on  it." 


COME  CHRISTMAS-DAY 


DECEMBER  winds  do  blow,  blow, 
blow.  Out  from  all  the  heav- 
ens they  sweep  and  swirl. 
Now  the  sere  land  shivers,  the 
groaning  trees  bend  low.  Now 
barely  the  dead  leaves  rustle,  the  thistle- 
down wings  away.  Wind  o'  the  north 
brings  ice  and  sleet;  wind  o'  the  south  sheds 
tears  in  flood  over  the  poor  year's  dying. 
East  wind  sighs  sullen  through  swathe  of 
chill  mist.  West  wind  blows  on  to  brave 
blue  skies  that  may  fitly  roof  this  holy  day 
of  feast. 

Christmas,  crown  o'  the  year !  Golden 
clasp  to  its  round  of  light  and  shadow. 
Truly  the  bells  of  it  shall  ring  out,  "  Plague 
I  banish,  peace  I  bring."  Welcome  it  roy- 
ally. Spread  out  for  soul  and  sense  a  feast 
of  fat  things,  good  to  the  use  of  edifying. 

Go  along  woodland  ways,  and  spoil  them 
in  its  name.  Take  to  your  hands  remorse- 
less every  green  thing.  Spare  not  sighing 


238 

cedar  bough,  nor  garish  holly ;  break  long 
trails  of  wax-green  brier ;  pluck  by  armfuls 
of  the  hill-side  fern. 

How  green  it  lies,  prone  on  Earth's  breast, 
nestled  in  russet  leaves.  Seize  it,  and  spare 
not.  The  fairies  are  all  asleep  in  deepest 
caves  of  Gnomeland.  Did  they  stir,  they 
would  help  you  elfishly  thus  to  rob  their 
brothers,  the  snow -sprites,  the  ice -fays. 
Pluck  the  great  leaf,  the  small;  weave  your 
wreath,  or  arch,  or  ribbon  of  them ;  hang 
wall,  door,  pillar,  with  their  lacy  emerald. 
The  very  soul  of  Christmas  clings  and 
abides  in  it — more  than  even  in  the  holly 
so  ruddily  bedight,  so  wreathed  and  woven 
through  Christmas  song  and  story.  A 
cheery  green,  no  doubt,  yet  something  bar- 
baric, with  its  gloss,  its  sharp  leaf -points, 
its  crude  glow  of  berry.  Use  it  with  spar- 
ing wisdom,  else  the  glare  of  it  shall  put 
out  of  countenance  the  tender  soberness  of 
cedar  and  fern  and  thorny  smilax.  Break 
long  boughs  scant  of  berry — but  here  and 
there  a  coral  gleam — to  set  high  in  dull  cor- 
ners or  shadowed  nooks.  Wreathe  them 
above  your  chimney-piece,  in  welcome  to 
Kriss  Kringle ;  set  here  and  there  a  stem 
about  marble  or  picture ;  as  you  love  the 
season  leave  unmade  star,  wreath,  or  cross. 


239 

Lift  your  eyes  to  the  mistletoe  waving 
overhead.  A  rare  clump  truly — thick-sown 
with  greenish  pearl.  It  feeds,  too,  upon 
oak-sap.  In  time  of  the  Druids  such  root- 
hold  had  made  it  sacred.  At  Beltane,  the 
year's  high  holyday,  the  chief  priest  had 
come  with  all  his  train  to  cut  the  bough 
with  a  golden  knife  and  bear  it  in  state  to 
the  altar.  Rarities,  you  see,  have  always 
been  precious.  Mistletoe  grows  for  the 
most  part  on  other  than  oak-trees.  Like 
most  parasites,  it  loves  best  the  succulence 
of  water -side  growths.  Almost  you  can 
trace  the  creek's  windings  through  the 
wood  by  the  yellow-green  blotches  of  it, 
splashed  through  the  bare  tree-tops. 

An  uncanny  growth,  this  rooted  vampire  ! 
The  stiff,  thick,  straight-branched  stems  are 
just  the  green  of  the  small  leaves.  It  owns 
no  grace,  no  sweetness  —  even  in  fullest 
berry.  Like  some  uninteresting  persons  it 
boasts  only  "  the  claim  of  long  descent,"  the 
charm  of  tradition.  In  virtue  of  them  give 
it  plentiful  room.  Hang  it  high  in  hall  and 
stair — let  it  droop  from  your  lintel,  whitely 
bestar  your  garland.  The  wood  yields  it 
lavishly.  Take  of  its  abundance  with  open 
hand. 

Take,  too,  dark  trails  of  cross-vine.     The 


240 

stiff,  smooth,  mottled  leaves,  drooping  by 
twos  all  along  the  slender  stalk,  will  hang 
fresh  and  unwrinkled  upon  your  wall  for 
weeks.  Twine  it  light  about  your  mirror, 
so  its  image  shall  show  in  the  glass,  or 
wreathe  with  it  the  picture  of  your  love,  or 
drop  it  in  long  festoons  from  under  knots 
of  gay  holly,  and  light  its  dark  twining  with 
silver-feathering  of  clematis  in  seed. 

Here  be  dead  boughs,  all  forested  with 
gray  lichen,  dead  bark  with  rich  embroidery 
of  gray  and  green.  Choose  you  good  store 
of  both — they  light  up  wonderfully.  Beside, 
their  soft  tones  bring  harmony  out  of  chro- 
matic discord.  (  Choose,  too,  thick  mats  of 
moss — the  greenest,  the  velvetiest  of  all  the 
wood.  Take  with  it  the  wild  roots  it  shelters, 
and  set  moss  and  roots,  with  a  fringing  of 
fern,  in  fair,  wide,  shallow  pots.  They  ask 
neither  sun  nor  earth— give  them  but  space 
and  water  they  spread  you  a  feast  of  green, 
whereon  the  eye  may  rest  till  its  lid  drops 
and  in  sleep  come  dreams  of  the  summer 
world. 

What  dinsome  clamor  swells  up  from 
the  wood-pile.  The  axemen  are  all  chop- 
ping for  life,  cutting  "  Christmas  wood  " — 
enough  to  feed  all  the  hearths  till  the  New 
Year  shines  in  room  of  the  old.  They  sing 


241 

at  their  work — ah,  so  cheerly!  How  the 
bright  steel  eats  through  the  logs !  Decem- 
ber though  it  be,  each  dark  face  is  beaded 
thick  with  sweat,  albeit  they  stand  in  shirt- 
sleeves tossing  the  fire-sticks  hither  and  yon. 

Choose  now  a  Yule-log,  remembering  the 
while  that  the  soul,  the  spirit,  of  Christmas 
abides  but  through  its  burning.  Not  this 
sightly  hickory.  Big  and  solid  as  it  lies 
fire  will  go  through  it  in  a  single  night, 
leaving  never  a  brand  to  lay  away  for  next 
year's  kindling.  This  round,  dense  post- 
oak  were  longer-flamed,  yet  still  too  brief. 
Green  poplar  on  the  dogs  is  a  snare,  a  de- 
lusion ;  dry,  fire  burns  it  likq  windy  stubble. 
Ash,  elm,  white -oak?  All  good,  but  not 
best.  Ah !  here  is  the  wood  of  endurance 
— this  gnarled,  rough,  knotted  black-jack — 
two  feet  through  at  butt,  so  dense,  so  close, 
as  almost  to  turn  the  axe's  edge. 

Cut  your  log  thence,  and  bear  it  straight 
to  its  appointed  place.  How  black  the 
wide  -  throated  chimney  yawns.  It  is  five 
feet  betwixt  jambs,  with  a  wide,  generous 
hearth.  Lay  your  log  flat  upon  it,  close 
against  the  chimney  back.  Set  in  front  of 
it  the  tall,  heavy,  wrought -iron  dogs;  pile 
them  high  with  round  sticks,  small  hickory 
logs,  and  chips,  and  bark.  Fill  all  the  space 
16 


242 

underneath  with  fine,  dry  splinters,  then 
leave  it  untouched  till  the  Christmas  Eve 
shall  come. 

Light  it  then  with  a  handful  of  red  live 
coals.  Watch  them  smoulder — smoke — kin- 
dle to  creeping  flame.  A  little  while,  it  roars 
and  flashes  high  in  the  chimney-throat,  leap- 
ing, hissing,  crackling — now  blue,  now  yel- 
low, at  last  clear  red — the  glow,  the  glory, 
of  Christmas — so  fine,  so  hot,  Kriss  Kringle 
might  leave  pack  and  reindeer  to  sun  him 
in  its  blaze. 

Eleven  o'  the  clock.  The  blaze  is  a 
steady  burning.  Twelve,  red  coals  overflow 
to  the  wide  hearth.  One,  in  the  morning, 
fine  frosting  lies  on  the  coals.  Two,  three, 
here  is  pallor  of  ashes  enshrouding  the  red 
heart.  Back  of  them  the  big  log  shows 
black  and  stark — burned  half  to  the  heart, 
still  faintly  asmoulder.  As  cocks  crow  in 
the  dawn  it  gives  out  the  barest  crackle; 
the  hand  may  pass  unscathed  where  last 
night  was  such  fierce  shining. 

Once,  twice,  many  times,  flame  shall  lick 
and  roar  ere  the  stout  timber  crumbles  to 
ashes.  Sit  in  the  light,  the  warmth,  of  it ; 
take  thus  strength  to  your  soul,  your  spirit. 
So  shall  you  front,  clear-eyed  and  smiling,  the 
stress,  the  shining,  of  the  brave  New  Year. 


W.  HAMILTON  GIBSON'S  WORKS. 

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JV.  Y.  Tribune. 

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